


Just Maybe

by telemachus



Series: Rising-verse [10]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hair Brushing, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-07 13:58:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 51,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1120663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>so, how do you cope with all the history of different races, how do you cope with being the only one of a group who has a certain culture? and maybe, just maybe..........</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. so this is Imladris.

**Author's Note:**

> ok, elves are weird. they aren't human. they aren't even mortal. they are odd. look in tolkein, they have some really odd ways. dwarves - dwarves are simpler.  
> going to assume we all know the basic story. mostly bookverse, a little movieverse where its just too good to resist.

So this is Imladris. Rivendell. In all my life I have never journeyed so far from the wood of my home. Such mountains to cross to get here. Such a distance I could see. So many lands I will never visit. I did not know how it would feel to ride so far, so fast. To make decisions, to follow a road and find my way. To meet so many strange peoples. To be so alone.

For here, there are only Noldor, and the half-elven. There are men. There is the wizard Mithrandir. There are these strange Halflings – hobbits they call themselves. And there are dwarves.

Noldor – Ada, you were right. They are sure of themselves. They are wise, and beautiful. They scare me, and I find I am so glad of all your schooling in impassivity.

And the half-elven are the same. I feel rough, untutored, unlearned among them. They talk casually of crossing vast distances, killing, fighting, healing, and yet, they are so beautiful. I feel unfinished next to them. 

I find I am glad of the mortals around me, to whom I am an elf, no more, but no less than these others.

The men, I find I can understand. They are not so very different to my people I think. Fighters, trackers, hunters, people of the wild and the battlefield. No doubt they will have some strange customs (and indeed, I need only look at their oddly small ears, and shaggy, ill-groomed, unkempt, short hair to be sure of this), yet I think perhaps I could deal with these mortals. You were right about men, Ada, as I suppose I should have known, from all your dealings with Laketown and Dale. 

Mithrandir is, as he has always been. I am glad of his presence. I feel safe when he is near. 

Hobbits, as I must learn to call them, are a strange race. They seem happy, yet tougher than they look, you said, Ada. No doubt you were right there too. The oldest seems to remember you fondly, and I wonder what in you inspired this affection. More than I have ever felt. The hobbits seem impressed by my lineage, which is ironic, so I do not mention that I am your least favoured son. They are a tight-knit group. I envy them that.

And then there are the dwarves. Quite a lot of dwarves. Although as I cannot easily tell them apart (all I can manage is to tell different hair-colours, any other features are lost to my eyes under those strange beards), I am unsure exactly how many. They are from Erebor, and I thank the Valar that I did not meet them on the road – for I would not have wanted to travel in company with Naugrim. Nor I think, would Lord Elrond have been welcoming had I inadvertently offended those whom he treats as valued guests. And this, itself, is strange to me – I know you trade with these, Ada, yet to my knowledge never would they be guests in your halls. The fact that we once imprisoned dwarves, maybe even some of these, on their way to re-take their mountain – we do not mention this, not yet at any rate. In the house of Lord Elrond, one does not wish to be unseemly. 

But I find myself unnerved by all these peoples, and the dwarves most of all. It is the lack of expression. And they wear braids, but I am unsure whether my reading of them is correct. It is almost easier with these others, and their oddly short hair – at least I know I am missing no clues. 

Still, some of those who live here are friendly enough to a lone elf, and I have found groups to join for combing most evenings. Which is a relief – I knew that being sent like this was a punishment for my lack of judgement, but I had not realised the worst of it. Being an elf alone is not easy. It is not natural to us. When I was truly alone, on the road, I was happy, I admit, and that is odd I know. But I was seeing places I had never seen, travelling so far and so fast. Being alone among others – that is harder.

 

 

What have I done? What have I committed myself to? Through shame at my failure to hold on to one small creature, I have bound myself to this hopeless quest. That, I do not regret so much, for it still seems to me that in honour this was my only choice. But I fear my lord king will disagree. I fear there will be payment for this, should I ever return to my woods. Yet, that I would risk, for in journeying thus I shall see so much more of this world than I had dreamed I ever might. 

But to journey thus, in such a group. I admit, I had not considered that. Men, hobbits, one of the Maia – no elves. And a dwarf. How can this group work together? How can this be a group? There will, I think, be no real bond, no mesh. I will be alone, yet with others. Ada, I know you will be angered by this. A dwarf. For weeks, months. My skin crawls. Son of one of those unlucky dwarves imprisoned for losing their way. This is not going to please the lord king or the father in you, Ada, and I do seek to please you, though I never have.

It is done. And what may come of it – who can say? One thing is certain though – I shall not return to my wood the same elf that left. I shall have seen much. And my heart lifts with this thought. Mountains. Plains. Rivers. Forests. 

Perhaps the Sea.


	2. so that was Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> change of voice. they might keep swapping - hopefully it should be clear.........

So that was Rivendell. 

Very fair. Very lovely. Very cold. Very elven.

I am not sorry to leave.

But I wish I could know that Father is safe home by now. They should be, all those who set out with us from Erebor – although I wonder how long Father will remain safe, once Mother hears I am to go on this quest. She will not be happy. But it is the right thing to do, and I have to hope he will persuade her of it. There was none other among our party young enough, or warrior enough to go, and I think none of us would have been happy had there been no dwarf in this Fellowship.

As for my companions – it is good to know Gandalf is here. A wizard who understands dwarves and can be trusted. 

Two men – both I think skilled in warfare and good companions for a dwarf, though not necessarily for each other. Should be interesting to watch.

Hobbits – and not only hobbits, but relations of our dear Bilbo. I have heard so many tales from Father of him, that I was so pleased to meet him - though he too is grown old. These seem young and fun – I think they will be in need of protection by the rest of us though – there is no battle-longing in them.

And the elf. I suppose, starting from Rivendell, at Lord Elrond’s command, there was always going to be an elf. But of all elves, why this one? So young he too seems – sings a lot. Though I daresay more of a fighter than the hobbits. But it is hard to forgive him for being the son of that woodland king. Hard to forget the tales I have heard of prison and escape. Hard to forget the story I have heard so often of the arrogant prince who insulted my mother’s portrait. Can’t help wondering if one of the more experienced elves from Rivendell would have been more help. But I daresay they were needed at home.

Home. I hope Father is home safe.

I hope home stays safe.


	3. Hollin

Hollin nears. There is definitely an improved feeling in the air here. The trees are almost friendly again. Walking at the back, scanning our traced path for anything untoward, I can see how the hobbits sense the difference without knowing what it is they feel. They all look happier, and seem to move more lightly. Aragorn and Mithrandir know this country and, although they cannot be truly off their guard, they too seem to alter their gait. Our valiant man of Gondor remains as he has been, too concerned with the pride of Gondor to notice any nuances among us, or changes in the world around him. And the dwarf? Dwarves do not care for green things growing, they are blind to the change of trees, and untouched by the change in the air.

I am surprised he does not hear the speech of the stones though. Or since it is the lament of stones for elves, perhaps he does not wish to.

Passing into this land, as we begin to set camp, I consider my companions, trying again to learn this group, wondering if this can ever be a group bonded and meshed enough to work together as I have always known a group of elves to be. I cannot imagine so. So many differences, so many strange ways. How can an elf, a maia, hobbits, men – and a dwarf – have any common ground? How can we learn each others’ thoughts? I cannot see it. I run through each in my mind, searching to understand a little of what they are.

Mithrandir is as he always is, as I remember him from the first time I met him. Perhaps more serious now, perhaps more aware of a grim purpose – but perhaps that is because I am no longer an elfling looking for fireworks and stories of distant lands. No longer an unsure archer heading for a first battle against unknown foes. 

 

The two men are still strange to me. I cannot understand how little they seem to wish to know each other, how little they are alike. I know that they are not the same type of man, yet I wonder if to those of another race Silvan and Noldor really seem as different as these two men of Gondor separated, it seems to me, only by upbringing. Both are clearly men of action, warriors, yet only one I think has any desire to live at peace, with battles won. One is as I have been told men are – yes, Ada, he is indeed grim, determined, protective of his people, decisive – and I guess, short-lived and short-tempered. The other – seems more unsure of his path, and I wonder if that is what love does – but you never taught me about that, Ada, did you?

 

The hobbits – now they, I can read a little better, I think. They are indeed deeply bound to each other, they are a group in the way I have always understood companions should be. They have their differences; there are the playful two, who I think must be young still and light hearted, despite our purpose, and there are the other two, playful at times, with signs of that hobbit-happiness still there, but never forgetting what lies ahead. And yet in all of them, I see that strange mix of courage and love-of-comfort, jesting and yet deep honesty that you described long ago, Ada. 

 

And the dwarf. Well, I know what to think about dwarves. There is only one race which has ever accused the elves of Mirkwood of caring for the spiders we fight year in, year out, simply to keep from being overrun. Only one race who would rather sit in a dungeon than answer the reasonable questions of the ruler of the land they traverse.

Yet, Ada, so far this one has not been unreasonable. His talk of the mountains was even verging on poetic. If that were possible for a dwarf. But of course, it is not. Their skills are only with their hands. I wonder whether he is always a warrior, or if his hands are skilled at making? 

I feel so alone in this company. I am an elf alone among mortals – for though Mithrandir is not mortal, he is no elf either. I am adrift and finding my own way. 

I am not sure whether I like this new-found freedom.

 

Food prepared, water found, fire lit, although it is morning we sit to eat, and talk and relax for it is evening to us, sleeping by day and travelling by night as we have been. The talk is slow, and faltering, with so many subjects too hard for such a group – too many customs strange, too many years of history and tradition pulling us apart, not binding us together. This is no true group.

At last we light on the thing that we have in common – well, four of us do – our love of fighting, and weapons.

“Swords? No, swords are only of use to those with the longer reach of men. For a dwarf an axe is the only weapon. Still useful if blunted, can be thrown at need, used in close work or at full stretch, and if needs must, can shape stone or hew firewood.”

“And yet,” I cannot help myself, “I have seen a dwarf use a sword. Once. Long ago.”

He looks sharply at me, “Really, master elf? One dwarf. Any other exceptions you feel the need to share from all your long years of experience in capturing innocent travellers?”

I feel myself flush, “this was in battle. And I was on the same side. And, yes, there was another exception. There was one used a bow. Quite well, for one who must have had so short a time to practice, and without the natural reach and vision of elves.”

He winces, and growls, “A short time indeed. Do not mock him, elf. His time should not have been so short.”

And I realise that I have unthinkingly gone too far – doubtless they were at least known to him – I had forgotten in my concentration on the issue. “Yet master dwarf, I was going to agree - a sword is a weapon only for a man, and then only for one who expects to have only to fight, and thinks of no other need. A bow or knife can feed you after the battle is over, or while you journey, and are rarely looked at with such suspicion in an inn.”

He grunts, “A dwarf is always looked at suspiciously in an inn, unless it is a dwarven inn.”

“Because you always arrive in full armour, carrying axes,” I cannot help but say.

Aragorn smiles –“in your vast experience of inns, Legolas, do you think that perhaps the reputation of elves has eased your way?”

I frown, puzzled. He mimes drinking, and the hobbits laugh. I smile, pleased he has moved us away from what was looking like another quarrel, and cheered them. All this talk of weapons and fighting is perhaps not entirely kind – they are not warriors and although it is well for them to learn a little, it would be a sad world if that was all there was to it. 

 

“Enough of fighting talk – no doubt we will all have chance to judge each other’s talents on the field over and over before we reach the end of this journey,” Boromir smiles, “there are other things that make a man – or indeed a warrior of any race – talents not on the field but in the bedchamber. Come, little ones, you are a peaceful people – but I will not believe you are without stories of conquest in this arena?”

I suppose it is meant well. Boromir is doubtless also trying, in his own clumsy way, to cheer the hobbits with talk of happier times. With the banter of comrades by the fire. The way men talk. And, for all I know, hobbits – these certainly seem to fall in to the conversation easily enough, teasing Sam and Pippin with names of those left behind, prodding at Merry and Frodo for disclosure which would, I gather, be ungentlemanly. 

And so it goes. Pleasant enough sparring for those who wish to join in. But that rivalry has to intrude. Boromir cannot leave those silent who do not speak. He turns to Aragorn:

“What of our Ranger? – Is he like a sailor – with a girl in every hill-village rather than port? A trail of conquests? Or are the Dunadan special in this and hold themselves aloof – in their own minds at least?”

I see Aragorn’s face tense, but am, (fortunately, I later reflect) wise enough not to leap in to his defence this time. 

“No answer? Or is it that it is with you as we hear of some, and brought up in Rivendell it is not maids that you seek, but elves....?” 

“You speak of what you do not know. It is not just hobbits who have rules of behaviour.”

“Oh, there are rules. But men by the fire, facing hardships, have always broken the rule of silence for the pleasure of memory. At least, it is so for the men of Gondor, but perhaps it depends whether there is a memory to share.....”

Before this can go further, Merry turns and speaks to the dwarf “What of dwarves, Gimli? Is it really as Bilbo told us, that you can love only once, and must wait for true love? Or is it another of the secrets which cannot be spoken like this?”

He smiles, and draws on his pipe, blowing a reflective smoke ring “Nay, master hobbit, I think someone gave Bilbo a decidedly idealistic account. Perhaps one of my cousins – they would have been young enough still to think that way. For those of us who are more experienced warriors know that while we can love but once, what you are speaking of need not wait for love, so long as there is the need on both sides. But I think I will not share all my ‘secrets’ – too many of them have now found love, and dwarven lovers are known for jealousy. I would not like to one day return home only to be met with rage sparked by idle hobbit chatter.”

Frodo smiles – “That is a clever answer. Now we cannot ask more, but must assume your knowledge outweighs ours as your years outnumber ours.” 

Oh, thank you ringbearer. That is leading the conversation only one way, if I know your cousin.

“Years? Well, it is obvious who has the most years.” Yes, Pippin is the one to say it. “Gandalf, what of wizards?” 

No, I was wrong. Of course, hobbits have no understanding of the respect due a Maia. One does not ask these things. At least, an elf would not. But then we would not be having a conversation like this if we were all elves, too much would be understood without the need.

“Wizards? Wizards are wise enough to keep their own counsel about many things, master Took.” He too retreats into pipe-smoking enigmatically. Perhaps this kind of talk is why they all have this obsession with the things. It is indeed a smokescreen to hide behind. But Pippin is unsquashable.

“Then Legolas – you are old enough to have at least one story to share surely? Elves are not likely to be as jealous as dwarves, for you are never tired of telling us how unalike you are?”

Maybe I should have learnt to smoke before this journey. Maybe I would have if I had known more of mortals. Instead I do my best to retreat into elven mystery;

“The ways of the elves are different.”

This, it seems by their faces, is not enough. Even Sam is looking puzzled but intrigued.

“I have no stories that I may share.”

Still not enough, still questioning eyes.

“I will leave you to your smoke, and watch awhile under the clear skies.”

And as I move away, I hear our proud man of Gondor laugh – “Truly, are you sure Gandalf, that this is a warrior, not a maiden? Or is it as rumour says, and elves may be both? Is this not a prince of mirkwood but a princess?”

“Know you nothing of the ways of elves, any of you? They wait for their One, more truly and steadfastly than dwarves, and many never find them, nor feel the lack.” Thank you Aragorn, that may be true, but I had not really seen the need to explain every detail. 

And now, I would wish for less than elven hearing. The gasps which follow are not the most flattering. Nor did I wish to hear Gimli say; 

“Is it so? That ‘master superior elf’ is completely ignorant of the pleasures of love? That explains a lot.” And laughs. As does Boromir. 

But even now, Aragorn must persist “They do not feel the lack. If there is no love, nor need for children. They are different. Even when they love, if there is no desire for children - ”he pauses “otherwise, I suppose we would be overrun with little elves. Perhaps you should not laugh but be relieved Gimli, for otherwise Legolas would have a clan to torment you.” Has the man no sense of when to be silent? Will not Mithrandir silence him? I know why he is so keen to explain the ways of elves, but I could wish that he, in his expertise, had remembered about the hearing, and waited until I had gone further off.

“Well,” above the hobbits’ giggling which Aragorn has once again provoked, I hear Gimli’s voice “now, indeed I do pity elves, for it seems to me that an immortal life without ale, pipe or love would be worthless, however full of stars, wine and song. Perhaps the firstborn are not perfection, but merely a first draft, improved upon as the Makers thought again. For so it often can be with the crafting of beauty.”

Beauty?

What does he mean?

“A jewel may be beautiful, but if it is shaped to usefulness and strength it may lose its pure grace,” he continues softly – and I realise that he thinks he speaks unheard.

But I hear, and I wonder what he means.


	4. Does he never stop?

Does he never bloody stop? Even halfway up this fucking mountain. Even in a snowstorm, the likes of which I have never seen, a snowstorm like to kill our hobbits. Even now, that sodding elf is singing. 

Look at him, prancing along above the snow. Still serene. No thick winter clothes. Pointy sodding ears twitching. Perfect sodding braids precisely where they should be.

As he laughs, and turns, running, ‘to find the sun’, for the first time I watch him move. Suddenly an image flashes into my mind, of how sweet it would be to plunge myself deep within that perfect arse. How hot and tight he would feel. How he would arch upwards, as I pound into him. How he would moan and thrash under me, hair dishevelled. 

How he might stop bloody singing then.

And the heat that throbs through me seems enough to melt this snow.

He passes quickly out of sight, and I push the thought from my mind. Ridiculous, Gimli. You heard what Aragorn told us – elves do not look for pleasure in that way. If they did – ah if they did! But they don’t. And this foolish, beautiful princeling is one you must travel with for many miles, so stop these thoughts now. There will be plenty others on the road somewhere no doubt. There always are if you are ready to look. And I am always ready to look. Boromir, man of Gondor, may think himself experienced, but I doubt one with his reputation to uphold can find as many opportunities as a dwarf under the mountain, or in Dale, or indeed nearly anywhere. Such are the wonders of dwarven reputation for attention to detail, and stamina – and equipment.

 

Down this mountain. We make for the halls of my people, for Khazad-dum. Joy shall I have at the sight of my kin, and perhaps more than sight if opportunity arises. But, concentrate Gimli, first we must get off this mountain. I will not be carried like a hobbit – I will ride this pony as a dwarf should. And I will not look at the elf with desire. He may be beautiful, but he is cold and while I may love jewels, I have no wish to bed a statue.

Even if my thoughts are right, and in the bedding he would waken and be not cold. He would probably still bloody sing.


	5. the long dark

Following him, I hate him. His arrogant swagger, redolent of delight in our change of plan. His confidence, his absolute certainty that he will prevail over anything. His eager stride towards this place. I dread it. And I don’t know whether I dread more the dark, orc-infested tomb, home of evil things from an earlier time, or the fire-warmed, lantern-lit tunnelling city, home of his kin. 

Even the wargs attacking last night only convinced him further that we should hurry to this place. He doesn’t seem to notice the dry, empty watercourse – perhaps he thinks his kin have drunk it. Or changed its course to seal themselves in – another rock wall against an army. I remember them doing so against the lake-men in another time, another dwarf-mine, another battle for gold – for such is ever their jealous greed and possession.

And when we see the pool, he still will not acknowledge there could be any reason for doubt or worry. No, he is still hopping with excitement. And the gates – now there is something to look at, some beauty – but no, all he can do is blame the elves for making the password one he cannot guess. 

 

 

Sealed inside, we have to start the march through. Now I am even more aware of him. All the time, strutting along next to Mithrandir as though he has any better idea of the way than the rest of us. I know, “he is a dwarf, he will not mind the dark and underground tunnels will confuse him less” – but surely the hobbits would be as confident – and it might encourage them more to give one of them the position. His confidence grates on me. It is the confidence of an eldest son, an adored son, one who has grown up in trust and faith of love. I cannot imagine what it would be to have a father so proud, so loving as to carry a locket with a portrait of a son. The memory of it has lingered with me all these years. I see now the confidence it gives a loved son. And I hate him for it.

 

March after march through this long dark, I feel my awareness of him grow, and everything about him that is alien magnifies in my mind, until I almost forget the unseen follower flapping behind us, almost forget the orcs who must be aware of us by now, almost forget the unspoken rivalry between the two Men which threatens to become more, - and almost forget my fear of ancient evil. Perhaps this obsession has its uses, I think, and again begin to recite the justifications for prejudice that I am finding.

“Dwarves are not like us. They care only for gold and jewels. And their rights, their possessions. “ No, not like you at all, Ada. “Dwarves are dirty, unwashed, they do not change their clothes under their mail.” Well, Ada, I don’t think any of us have on this journey. Sorry. “Dwarves are proud. Dwarves are clannish.” Perhaps dwarves see their kin as a reason for pride, Ada, lucky them. “Dwarves are stubborn, “ right that time, “Dwarves are burrowers, workers, they have no song in them, no poetry, no love of starlight, no love of green growing things, no love or understanding of beasts or birds.” Again, all true. “Dwarves are hairy” So observant – and yet, Ada, it is one of the things I loathe least. “Dwarves can see in the dark. Or find their way by smell.” Apparently so can wizards. “Dwarves are over confident. Dwarves are over ready to fight. Dwarves are brought up to believe themselves always right. Dwarves believe in happy endings.” Lucky dwarves, Ada, perhaps it is that loved-child thing again? Now, don’t be bitter. Nobody likes a bitter prince. Or a bitter elf. Besides, I think I might have stared too much. After all, dwarves can see in the dark, and I worry what he might read in my eyes – not hate, but envy. Or what? I am not even sure I know the word for this in any language. Just think of something other than where we are, and who else may be shut in here with us. Perhaps think of my other companions.

 

 

Boromir – another adored eldest son. Yes, a heavy expectation, but not one that he has ever failed to meet. Yes, he is valiant, and all those other qualities that he is quick to tell us of – but I wonder, what of his brother – what is it like to be the younger son of the steward, to be the younger brother of Boromir – always trying to keep up, always failing, always judged to be less because always judged by the standard of another? And yet, even so, I envy Faramir – one day, their father will die. One day he will not be a younger son. Or, if not, it will be because he has died first, and gone on before them both. I envy him that gift.

 

Aragorn – no father at all. Just Elrond – foster-father, father of the one he loves, lore-master, healer, warrior– now that is a hard burden to bear. Too hard I would think, were it not for the hope of love fulfilled. Unless that makes it worse. Perhaps it does. I do not know. I cannot judge that.

 

Pippin and Merry – for I still cannot think of them separately – they are happy in their families and fathers. They speak of them with love, they know that they are missed and will be welcomed home on their return whatever the manner of it. Sam is the same I think – hobbits must be a happy folk, they seem to have the right of this as well as other things. Even Frodo, whatever happens, he knows that the old hobbit waiting in Rivendell will love him. Perhaps this deep grounding in them all is the reason they can jest even now, the reason that, as Mithrandir is fond of saying, they “have more about them than meets the eye”. Perhaps it is hobbits who should have taught other races their wisdom, not elves.

And I? What kind of son am I? Unneeded. What immortal elven king needs a third son, when the eldest already is wed and has children? Unwanted. What husband wants a son whose birth caused his wife to fade, and go into the West? Unsuccessful. What ruler wants a son who cannot even keep one tiny creature captive – or indeed, return from a simple errand without wandering off on an uncommanded quest? For so I am sure he will see it. Undesired. That is plain enough, in any form. If it were not for the love between him and my mother, (I am told, for how would I know?) I daresay he would before now have asked himself, if I am indeed a son of his? What of his cold calculations do I manage? What of his courage? What of his learning? What of his wisdom? What of his leadership?

 

 

Oh. Dwarves do sing. They do have poetry in them. They even notice stars. Sometimes. Was everything you told me wrong, Ada? And why do I care? I cling to the prejudices I have left. They are clannish. They are proud. They care only for gold and jewels. They are hairy. They are burrowers. They believe in happy endings. 

But fewer of these seem worth judging against now. And suddenly it occurs to me to wonder why a king whose palace is a cave is so sure that “burrowers” is an insult. Another deceit, Ada?

And on, and on through the stifling, unending dark. I feel the weight of rocks above us pressing down, I imagine the walls and roof closing in about us. How can this ever have been a palace and place of beauty? A hole, filled with scurrying, unmelodious Naugrim, each intent on his own purpose, blind, unco-operative and hairy as moles in their tunnels. How can they bear this never-ending darkness, this weight of years and expectation around them, with nowhere to run into sunlight and clean battle to escape it? 

 

Resting? How can this be resting in this ceaseless dark, the pressure above and around us? How can these mortals bear it? In the darkness I long for the only comfort that would drive this fear away – but I am no elfling and cannot comb my own hair with others around me, even though I suspect the dark would hide my actions from their vision. I wonder how the dwarves can live down here – do they group as elves do, or is there some other means of release? I find myself wondering how the dwarf’s russet, shimmering hair would feel, wondering if it would pour, smooth as silk, or cling and tangle between my hands. I wonder what it would be like to comb and touch that beard, for eyes to meet as hands explore; shiver at the thought of the touch of lips on fingers, then catch myself drifting and stop. This place is not good for an elf alone. The sooner we continue and find the other gate, the sooner I may know my own mind again.

 

 

Now, what? Must we all stop, stand here vulnerable, not moving, while this foolish dwarf grieves for relatives he hardly can know, and must have known were dead for many days now at least? Stupid. There is no time for this. And yet. I cannot help but be touched by the depth of feeling he shows. Dwarves are indeed clannish. They care not only for their gold and jewels, their rights and possessions. Wrong again, Ada. Watching his grief, even as I know we should not wait here, something inside me twists in a pain I do not understand. And I would have him comforted. 

 

Perhaps this chance to kill orcs will help him, I think, even as I prepare my bow. Perhaps this chance to kill orcs will help release me from this tension, this growing obsessive awareness. Too long have I been travelling armed, yet not fighting; watching for attack, yet unable to pre-empt it. The beautiful game of battle will be its usual release; protecting the hobbits – yet not allowing them to realise they are so protected by the rest of us, to save their pride and build their skill – adds an extra challenge. And there will be the fierce joy of slaughter, fiercer this time for the wait, more skill needed in this half-light. The pleasure of fighting alongside companions, the beautiful, unplanned dance that meshes bow or knife with axe. Sword. I mean sword. Yet to team with a different weapon, at such a different height – that would indeed be a pleasure. If it were not him that wields it.

 

Now, even now, battle fought, (and it pains me to say it, but he fought well, more than well, with skill, and it was indeed a pleasure to watch and match) now, we must flee, but no, stupid dwarf is still standing. Your uncle died long ago, he does not know you grieve - and will not unless you get yourself killed while grieving so you can tell him. Move. I pull him on. Why? Would I care if he was left? Or would I just miss his axe?

 

On. On. Over the bridge. Turn. What is this new devilry?   
Ai!  
That is the evil I have felt in here for days. I cannot face this.   
Nor can he, I notice. Only the men, who know not what this is, and have not been scared from infancy with tales of this evil in the deep places of the world.   
And Mithrandir.  
Aie Elbereth.

 

Fly. Get out. Get the hobbits out.   
When the leader is gone, you obey the last command. It is clear who is used to fighting alone, and who is used to orders. He must have fought under his king before now to obey so unquestioningly even at this moment.

But now there is a chance for grief. The hobbits cling, in the way of their kind. The men turn their faces away, in the way of theirs. And we? We look at each other. Our eyes meet, and something in his causes me to speak without thought, un-elf-like.

 

“And now, dwarf, are you still pleased we came this way? Now you have the answer to your questions? Now you have seen these halls? Now none will see again those gates? Now we are leaderless? Now that Mithrandir is dead? Still confident? Still arrogant? Still believe you will prevail? Still believe in happy endings?”

 

And now, now I do at least have the answer to one question. I am indeed Thranduilion. In one thing at least I resemble him. I too can sneer and look, and with cold hauteur and cruel words, I too can hurt one I love. 

 

And indeed, I am an elf alone. Alone among mortals, alone with one of the Naugrim.   
Alone, I am not fully in control. I cannot bear this loneliness.  
Yet, I have increased it by my words.  
I would not seek comfort from him.

Yet, perhaps, I would.


	6. an eye on that dwarf...

“And have an eye on that dwarf!” the warden of Lorien ends. I only wish it were still possible for me not to have more than an eye on him. Wish that it were possible for me not to be aware of him with every fibre of me. Wish that I was not aware of his dislike for me with every inch of my skin which crawls with shame for my ill-chosen words. Wish that I had the courage to apologise before this further division becomes obvious to the rest of the fellowship. 

Wish that I was not aware of the strength in his arms, the power in his hands, the sheer solid bulk of him – and wish that I did not long to discover if he feels as he looks. But that was never possible.

Lying here, I should feel eased by the tree’s motion; the wind in the leaves is the same sound here as in Mirkwood. But all it does is take me back to all the times I have scaled a tree to hide from retribution with this same sick feeling of guilt inside to unbalance me. And with some deep part of me I remember that it never worked then, and will not now. Tonight I long to escape into reverie, but I am too scared of the memories most likely to surface. I definitely do not want to relive any of the times I have been ordered down and taken in front of my lord Thranduil. 

Nor do I want to relive today. The battle, the flight, the loss of Mithrandir, the scalding anger of my words at the gate – the expression of bitter shock and hurt that heard them, and the desolate knowledge of my heart that followed. 

And then, I have no memory of the journey here. I was lost and must have walked and conversed without knowing what I did. I remember Nimrodel and singing of the maiden lost. Wondering whether she ran from the elven-king as I have always assumed, or whether she ran to someone else. And for the first time, that seems possible.

And then – my heart sinks within me – again, more foolish words. Unmeant this time, but that is not enough to redeem them. 

“.......the Dwarves awakened evil in the mountains.” I recite as I have long been taught.

“But the dwarves did not make the evil,” he says, so calm, so gentle – and so right.

“I said not so; yet evil came,” and indeed, elves should know that evil comes, from the best intentions as from the worst, if there is not strength and awareness always to guard against it. - I think no race can be absolved of waking evil, certainly not those who made the silmarils, or fought war after war for them, sacrificing kith and kin for jewels. My heart twists once more, that this has been taken as a further cut, this, which was simple story-telling, as I learned it, long ago. Yet I know not how to ask forgiveness.

 

Then, ah then, the impulse to swing up into the safety of the trees – and the shock of the hated command, so long known and so long dreaded. “Daro!” - Coming from a half-seen, supercilious blond, towering over me. Fear courses through me, even as I remember it, even as I know he is merely a border-guard, does not know me, does not mean harm. 

And so, to now, allowed to stay, with the promise of entering the realm further tomorrow. And left to guard and be responsible for this dwarf. Who does not yet know he must be blindfolded – and I cannot tell him. Not after all else that I have said amiss today. I cannot. Though I know perhaps it would be best to have this said, resented, discussed and agreed to, here, among our companions, now. But I am afraid.

 

Rightly so, it seems. I should have braved the conversation last night. For now, my acid tongue again betrays me, letting slip only my impatience, “a plague on the dwarves and their stiff necks,” I say, hardly diffusing the stand-off. For once, I know he is in the right – this is an unfair rule, and I was wrong not to warn him. 

“I will be content, if only Legolas shares my blindness,” he says – and it is only after I protest, angered in my turn, only after Aragorn insists we are all blindfolded, that, in the darkness behind my eyes, a spark is lit at the thought of sharing any sensation with only him. A spark that I do not fully understand, and I feel myself flush to the tips of my ears – and I am grateful that my companions are also blind – and hope that these kin of mine will think only that it is the touch of hand on hair and ear that causes it. For indeed, I do long for that, and hope there will be time enough here to comb.

 

But for now, the walk has been easy enough, and the hobbits chatter constant enough, that I can think, and drift and now lie quiet, enjoying the sound of his breathing, aware of his presence, as different from the others as one voice from another, while all sleep – except my kin, who groom and reverie together.

At noon, the message comes – remove the blindfolds. And as my eyes are freed they are drawn to him, and as I see the wonder on his face, looking about at this most lovely of woods, more of the old lies fall from my mind and I am left lost, without map to find my way through this enchantment that is upon me.

 

They tell me that from the heights of Cerin Amroth it is possible to see Mirkwood, as though I must long for the sight – but I do not. Even were it the northern trees that have been my home so long, hardly touched by the shadow in the south, I would not look. Not when all I thought I was is breaking within me.

 

To Caras Galadhon, and the meeting with the Lord and Lady. I hear the dwarf speak words of courtesy such as I was told no Naugrim could – and as he praises beauty, such a longing is in my heart that I am glad for the ever-calm appearance of my race. 

Words of comfort, hope and warning are spoken, before the Lady holds Aragorn’s eyes with her own for a long silence.

The Lady’s gaze turns next to me ‘what of you, he who my husband greets as Thranduilion, he who would reject that name, will you take my offer of your heart’s desire? A chance to stay here in a most beautiful forest, among your kin, with the certainty of battle-joy ahead? And no more of these mortals, no more of your uncertainty, no more taunts?’

‘No.’ I can answer easily, ‘that is no longer my desire.’

She smiles, ‘what if I could offer you that which is? That which you cannot name even in your thoughts?’

‘Then, ah then I would be tempted. But for the knowledge that it would be to throw away the honour I have, little though it is, for only a semblance of bliss. An illusion, false as any sent by the enemy. I know, and you, my lady, know that it cannot be.’

She smiles again ‘you pass the test. And yet let hope remain in your heart.’

Even as her eyes move on, I wonder. And I wonder what she offers the others as they too are tested. Especially I wonder what she offers him?

 

The pavilion prepared for our fellowship is pleasant enough, but I slip away as soon as may be, and it is not long before I find the accustomed comfort of elven hands on ears, elven combs in hair, and in the air the song of elven voices, as it has ever been. Long have I desired this, and it feels good.

 

 

Yet the words of the Lady remain in my mind, even as I reverie among my kin. ‘Let hope remain in your heart.’ Hope for what? Hope that I may return here? Hope that I may return to Mirkwood, and find all my past misdeeds forgot and home a welcoming place such as I cannot imagine? Hope of death in the glorious dance of battle?

Or hope of that I cannot bring myself to fully name, and think I do not fully know even in dreams? Hope of love?

 

Perhaps I may try my courage at the hardest of all things. I choose my time carefully – when all others are resting, and he is alone, contemplating something, pipe in hand. I would have no witness to this. I seat myself alongside him, near enough to speak soft, yet not too close – not so close that my nervousness be felt. Hands clasped about my knees, staring at our feet, so near and yet so differently clad, I begin.

“Master dwarf,” I swallow, “Gimli, son of Gloin, I would beg your forgiveness for my words at the gates of Khazad-dum. I was wrong to speak so,” hesitant, I raise my eyes from his boots, “I would plead grief, but that your grief did not unbalance your mind nor rob you of your courtesy. I would plead strain of days underground, but that I fear to insult the halls of your ancestors further,” I pause again, and bite my lip, searching for further courage to continue, “and I would beg leave to show you some of the beauty of this realm, should it please you?”

Slowly he draws again on his pipe, and as I wait for the smoke-ring which I know will precede speech, I again think this is a most useful habit. He looks at me, and his dark eyes I cannot read.

“Aye, master elf, I would be glad to see more of this forest,” he at last answers, “and as for your words – for this dwarf, it was an interesting lesson that elves are no better than other folk at grieving.”

I smile, rueful, “perhaps less, for we are out of practice and would ever transform the pain to song – even as the Galadhrim do at this moment.”

 

 

And so begins a strange time. Filled with grief still for Mithrandir, yet filled with joy for this new beginning. Filled with fear at every moment lest the misunderstandings return, lest all the stories I was told were true, yet every day the hope that they were wrong and this is right grows. Filled with jealousy such as I have never dreamed of whenever he praises the beauty of the Lady. Filled with longing, yet still I do not fully understand for what I yearn. Filled with pleasure in another’s company, filled with a new friendship, filled with learning, filled with teaching. Filled, above all, with Gimli. 

 

Were it not for the nights spent in reverie with kin while he sleeps, I do not think I would know how to keep this elven mask in place, do not think I could conceal my feelings from him, even though they are not clear to me. But at night, I can be an elf among elves, ears, hair and hands, song and stars, pleasures all as they ever were. Yet even like this, I cannot forget him. I cannot stop myself from wondering what it would be to comb with him. How would his hair feel – his beard, his ears? How would his hands feel on me? How would it be to sing with him – would my voice mesh with his as my bow and knife mesh with his axe? My mind wanders - but kin though these are, they care little enough not to question my time spent with him, and they know little enough of me not to care for all my past misdeeds. 

 

But this time must end, and on we must go. And it is as we are preparing to leave, among the hobbit-chatter of ropes and food supplies, that a conversation shows me that all our divisions are still there, deep within us.

“Your hair, Legolas?” sharp-eyed Pippin is the one to notice, “you have new beads in it.”

They all look, and I wonder why, “Yes, they were a gift.”

“From?” 

“I do not know his name, Pippin. Mine were broken and worn – he saw my need.”

“You do not know his name?” Aragorn seems shocked.

“No, he was simply the one who had them to hand when another had finished braiding,” I shrug, “they are pretty, but not light-catching. They will last a while I hope.”

“You accepted jewellery from one whose name you did not know – “

“- while another braided your hair?” I am not sure who sounds more scandalised, the man or the dwarf. I look from one to the other, puzzled, “Yes.” I say, “what of it?”

Both stare at me as though – I am not sure as though what. I am not sure I can think of anything that would horrify me thus. Certainly not something so trivial.

The hobbits also look confused by the others reaction. Merry, trying perhaps to cover for Pippin’s unhelpful observation, says “He has kept the same style though. Not changed them at all.”

Ah. That is what would horrify me. “Change them?! How could he? I am not changed, my name is the same, my lineage the same, I am still an archer, still....” I flush.

“Still unwed?” it is the dwarf who finishes the sentence, and I nod, unable to meet any eyes.

Surprisingly, it is Boromir who saves me from this questioning, “Enough of this fussing over the elf. Their ways are strange, I thought we had all established this. We should be packing bags, and having a thought for our departure. So long as he can shoot his bow, wield his knife, and paddle his boat, I care not what else he has been up to, or with whom – and I certainly do not care how he braids his hair, or, master Pippin, if you ever intend to even brush yours!” and I am grateful for the laughter he provokes.

Yet, I feel again alone, as though all the growing friendship now means nothing if so simple a thing can horrify him so much.

Whatever his dwarven thoughts, and I still do not understand them, we are to share a boat, and the thought that he trusts me to pilot him warms my heart, for I know he is as unsure on water as any hobbit.

 

And as we leave that fairest of woods, I keep to the safety of my elven mask, all pleasure in his trust lost in pain at his grief in leaving. Would that I could say that it is his grief that pains me, but that is a lie I will not tell myself – it is not his grief, but his love and admiration for the Lady that cuts me. I knew not that I could feel this. Though with one part of myself I delight in this new bow, the like of which I have not seen, the joy of warrior for weapon is drowned in feelings I have not words enough for as I see his delight in her hair. What is the meaning of this to him? What does hair and braiding mean to a dwarf? In what way have I changed in his eyes since he heard me admit to combing with others? 

Does that mean he will never comb with me? 

Does that mean that this longing which I have begun to admit to myself exists will not be returned?

For never before have I wished to comb with one, one only, as I wish to with him. I do not know why, I do not know if it is because we are both alone here, I do not know if it is something that would have happened to me one day – but never before have I longed for a comb-mate as I long for him. I have seen others pair for combing, for a season, for a patrol or for life – I had begun to think it was not something that would ever happen to me. I had begun to think that just as I have never had that combing from parents that most elflings have, I would never have that combing with one other that most elves share. Often over and over again. But I have never felt the desire for one – and nor have I ever inspired it.

Yet, for him – I do desire it. I would have his hands in my hair, his hands on my ears, his voice with mine. I would bury my hands in his hair, I would explore the unknown of his beard. I – I admit to myself – I have come to wish to touch his strangely small, strangely curved ears. Heat runs through me at the thought, and I feel my own ears flush, and hope none of these not-elves will guess why.

And I would not share him.

I had come to hope that perhaps he might – just might – be willing to comb with me. For we are friends – I thought we were friends. And combing – is friendship.

It is for elves.

But I realise, I do not know what it is to dwarves. If it even exists. I had never before considered that it might not, that it could mean something different.

What does it mean to him? What does he think I have been doing with the Galadhrim?

Is there something else that friends might do? That he would wish us to do?

But if the Lady’s hair and beauty mean so much, then does it matter at all what he thinks of me?

And as I keep our boat afloat, heading cleanly through the current, my heart bleeds inside me with this new wound, not, this time, inflicted by my tongue, but by his, all unknowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have just realised that Gimli later states (at Isengard) that he lost his pipe in Moria. Oops. Sorry, but I am not going to try & change that scene now! Perhaps he is mistaken and actually left it behind when the Fellowship broke up? (Or possibly Legolas is wrong. or Gimli has borrowed someone else's here because he needs the nicotine hit.)  
> hopefully no-one cares. but it annoyed me so I thought I should fess up.


	7. an elven boat.

An elven boat. In the hands of an elf. I am not happy about this. Particularly this elf. Singing.

I was always told elves were calm. Serene. In control. Not this one. This elf is decidedly not.

Twitched all through Khazad-dum. Well, I suppose that was only to be expected. No elf is happy underground. Still singing though.

Although, he is a better fighter than I would have thought. Quite skilled with his little bow, and knives – although I still cannot think of them as proper weapons. Perhaps he can’t manage a sword. Still, he has killed a good number of orcs and wargs so far. Maybe Elrond was not so wrong to choose this elf – at least, it occurs to me, he has not expected to be the leader now where a more experienced Rivendell elf might have. And although that would have stopped the men bickering, I would not want to follow an elf’s lead.

But – for all Father’s stories, this arrogant princeling did not even think about leading. Interesting that.

Then – well, clearly there is one thing lacking from elven knowledge of words. They do not know how to swear. That little speech outside the gates of Khazad-dum was very pretty – but not half as frightening as he thought. No, it was very earnest and very sweet. 

Well, I was hurt at the time.

But clearly, he was scared himself.

And he did apologise. Eventually.

Stopped singing for a bit too.

Well, almost.

Then in Lorien – hundreds of them. And fuck me, they all bloody sing. All the time. 

Hobbits said it was like birdsong. I suppose they are right. Not many birds under the mountain or in busy Dale. 

I don’t think birds go in for all this combing lark though. That was odd. Never imagined anything like that. Just once it was. That I saw him. Well, them. Whole bloody group of them. All sat round, fiddling with each others’ ears, combing hair. And, he admits, all braiding each other. I thought he was such an innocent. All this ‘elves don’t’ guff. Well. 

All bloody singing then too. 

Good thing they make so much noise though, that was why he didn’t know I saw. Really wouldn’t want him to know I saw that. 

Bloody mad elf. One minute he’s all friendly, and very nice it was too, lovely place, don’t think I’d ever be quite so keen on trees, but I did kind of get the point. Then it’s, ‘oh Gimli, you’ll be wanting to sleep now’ and off he goes. Well, after a few nights of this, I was starting to wonder is elf-life not quite what Aragorn told us. Maybe they do fuck – just they don’t want non-elves getting ideas. So, I admit, I followed. And now I don’t know how to think about this almost-friend – how to respect him.

I think I’d have found it easier if he’d been fucking.

Less weird.

 

 

Just don’t know whether I should say anything now. He’s upset about something. He thinks I don’t know, but I do. He sings different. 

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for the Lady’s hair. I wasn’t going to. It’s just that she was so beautiful. Oh she was beautiful. Perfect. And, for all my experience in Dale, I am not fool enough to think I could ever have one so fair. Even were she not famously well-married – and no dwarf would break another’s vows, take what is sworn to one only. But – even a dwarf can desire to. And, well, I don’t think elves have the same thing for hair we do. Didn’t think it would matter too much.

Still haven’t worked out what the fuck she was on about though – right back when we arrived here. When she offered us all a test, a chance to have something we desire, in return for giving up this quest. Perhaps even the wisest elves are unable to see beyond the stories of dwarves’ love of jewels – what the fuck is ‘living gold and loving sapphires’? And why would I turn from my sworn word, my hard-won honour for them? 

Elves. All bloody mad.

Has to be said, I can see the lock of hair causing difficulties later. Dwarves make jealous lovers – maybe I’ll have to think of a more diplomatic reason for having it. Not that there is anyone to be jealous – but you never know. One day. I’d like to fall in love one day.

Elf still sounds sad.

Don’t want to think about what or who he could be missing from those tree-elves. One of those guards, I suppose. Don’t want to think could be more than one, although there was a fair number doing their weird combing thing – all male. Suppose that might explain why he is so twitchy round our good Boromir – all his comments about warriors, and ‘real’ men. Funny really – it is clear which side he places me on – which is more than it has ever been to me.

Bloody elf still sounds sad – singing even more annoying like that.

Perhaps he doesn’t like his new bow.


	8. futures

As dusk falls, on this, our second day from Lorien, the three young hobbits disappear into the woods – not for long, but I think I am not the only one to be uneasy – a group should stay together. Firewood does not take long to gather; but when they return, I think not even stern Aragorn could bear to berate them, they are so lit up:

“We saw a badger family with cubs,” Pippin bursts out, “they were playing, it was beautiful.”

“Aye,” Sam continues, “nothing better nor more healing than watching young ones play.”

“Don’t suppose it’ll be long afore you have some of your own, once we’re home, Sam-lad?” Merry turns to the rest of us, “in fact, I’d guess many of us will find our thoughts that way once this is over?”

“Any dwarf longs for children – but it is in the hands of Mahal, and he does not grant them as easily as the one who watches over hobbits,” he shrugs, “but I would hope......”

“A steward of Gondor must have sons. But my father is hale and strong yet – I am in no hurry to be wed.”

Aragorn has that far-away look, “indeed, if I had a legacy to leave, I would desire a son, but for a ranger – it is not so urgent.”

“And for a third son of a king, who will never have more than my bow to my name, it is not even a wish.”

The hobbits look as though we have expressed the wish to become orcs. “But children...!”Pippin stutters “what else is the point?”

“Family,” agrees Merry

“Bundles of them, larking and eating, and shrieking and laughing,” Sam is the most animated I have seen him.

Boromir looks surprised “Well, for the son of the Thrain of the shire, or the master of Buckland, perhaps. Or you are a landowner Frodo – what of you?”

Perhaps he is starting to learn tact – he has not actually said he does not see why Sam is so keen.

“I do not now think that will be for me. Land is hardly a reason for children, Boromir,” the ringbearer’s quiet voice is meant to be a rebuke I think, “but you would wish for children only to pass possessions to? That seems ill to us who value them for themselves alone.”

“Aye, so it is for dwarves. We value them, yet our race seems not to be as blessed as those who count them as chattels,” he looks at the men, “or care not and are cold.” 

That I suppose was aimed at me. But I think if he knew what it is to have a cold parent, he would understand the fear of inflicting what one has suffered. Besides, as for many elves, I have no reason to desire a partner or child, although on this strange journey I long for the companionship of kin. Then, surprisingly, he continues, “And then there are those who take the warrior’s path, who have no chance of children, whose love takes a different form,” and, meeting my eyes, “particularly, I think, among the elves?”

I cannot help but flush to my ear-tips, and Boromir snorts, “Aye, there are always some – though strange it is still to a man of Gondor that these bejewelled ones should be counted among the warriors.”

The hobbits stand confused, looking from one face to another, and I wonder if their race has no knowledge of the intricate complexities of love. Aragorn once more assumes the role of leader, and as we use the firewood so slowly collected the conversation is forgotten – or at any rate, it is dropped.

Until next day, when, as our boats continue downriver, he uses the cover of the splashing oars to say, “Master elf, if I am wrong, and it is not that you are, what my people would call “of the warrior’s love,” then forgive my words last night. Yet, I would not think you so cold as else you seem.”

And, grateful that we cannot meet eyes, I answer, “I thank you for your courtesy, yet for elves it is not so straightforward as I think it is for others. We are nothing if not bound to one. And for many that day never comes.” And for some, I think, that day passes unacknowledged for fear of losing this faltering half-friendship which is all I dare to hold.

“Yet, those who were braiding your hair and whose hair you braided in Lorien were......?”he hesitates.

“Male. Yes,” I hardly know where to go with this, “but – does braiding mean something more than friendship and comfort to dwarves?”

And now, I can almost feel his confusion, “Aye, it would – it would mean a lot more. A lot, master elf, more than I can easily say.”

“Oh. Then,” I am able to smile, even though inside I weep bitter tears for what will not be, “I shall not offer you my comb when next we are at rest, master dwarf, for fear of compromising you.” And as he growls in annoyance at my flightiness, I continue to steer us through the current, grateful, Ada, for all those hours of lessons in dissemblance and disappointment learnt and learnt well long ago.


	9. now we run

Now, hastening over this plain, I would wish for more of my kin – for we would not need to sleep as these mortals do. I fear that even with all our best speed we shall be too late. I fear for those hobbits, for they are dear to me, foolish though they are; they are kind, as you told me, Ada. And kindness has been rare enough in your realm for me to value.

Would that we had answered the horn of Gondor quicker. For then they might not have been taken, and that brave warrior not fallen. Although I had no great love for him, I would not have him dead in such a way – I am sure it is not the death in battle before his walls that he wished for – and he left no sons, which must surely grieve his spirit.

But even as I think this, I am honest enough to admit to myself that if the death of Boromir is the price for the life of this dwarf, I would wish to pay it over and over. And the only honour in that, is if I will not act on it. I swear I will not. Only the lives of our enemies will I spend to save him. Or my own.

For after these days and nights journeying on the river, I have come to know my heart. I may not fully understand how this has happened, but it is done. I may not have hope of love returned, but I think there may be friendship – and perhaps that can be enough. The friendship that sits in silence as the forests and plains slip by the river. The friendship that can talk of little things to while away the miles, and slowly, in teasing and talk begin to break down old barriers built by custom, and forge something new. 

And still I can dream that it is a friendship which might one day be expressed in the way I have always known – that one day he might comb me, one day I might be able to touch his hair.

But cheering as these thoughts are, they are in reality but distractions from the real purpose of this haste. The urgency of finding these hobbits. I cannot bear to think of all their joyful foolishness lost under the weight of torment. We must hasten.

 

 

Alas, I fear we three have not the speed. I see the sun rise and I know in my heart that we are too late. Blood has been shed this night, and how can it be not that of our companions? 

Our group is sundered, and I would be adrift, were it not that he is one of the two left. And that means so much.

So much, that when this brave horse-lord, (who I can see that in other times I might admire) threatens him, I do not think. I act fast, as only elves can act fast, for I will not allow harm to come to this dwarf if my bow can prevent it.

And even as Aragorn calms the situation, I think that once again, Ada’s lessons in scorn, in cold efficiency, in hiding my true feelings, have made me what I am – for good and ill.

 

So now, we have horses. I am joyful. I love to ride. This new horse, Arod, seems to me kind and faithful – and fast. I shall have some great pleasure here I think, I shall have a friend such as I am used to.

And if there is another, previously unknown, pleasure in having Gimli sat behind me, holding me – what of it? What if I do enjoy his dependence and trust? I will keep him safe on this horse, as I did in the boats downstream. For this too is friendship.

But it is friendship also that drags down my heart when I would rejoice in these things. For now we fear still more for those little hobbits – if the Riders saw them not, where are they now?


	10. so this is fangorn

So this is Fangorn. A forest. Pretty similar to any other bloody forest, from where I am. But elf seems to think it is special. – although I am beginning to think every bloody tree is special to him.

And our hobbits are still lost. 

But not dead yet, we think.

Sleep in the forest. Durin’s balls, that sodding mad elf is going to sing to the trees all bloody night. 

Look at him. Standing there. Golden hair perfect as ever, long, lean body tense with concentrating. And after riding behind him all that way, sleep is the last thing on my mind. Sweet Mahal, what I would give to fuck him til he can’t walk. I know it’s partly just wanting to think about something other than our poor little hobbits. But sat there pressed up against him, holding him, all his bloody hair in my face – it’s probably a good thing he doesn’t know what I’m thinking about. 

Nothing to be done about it here though. 

 

Mahal be praised. Hobbits are alive and safe. Gone off with an ent – whatever that is. Safe though. Was not looking forward to telling Father we lost our hobbits. And Gandalf alive. Another thing I am glad not to have to tell Father. Going to be bad enough telling him about uncle, and all our kin lost in Khazad-dum – but I don’t think that is going to be a surprise really.

Downside is that now I am on Gandalf’s horse. Very much faster and more comfortable. 

But no elf.

Didn’t know when I was lucky did I?


	11. riding

We speed over the plain, and I love to ride. Mithrandir has returned to us. Our hobbits are safe – and with ents! Lucky hobbits. I am filled with envy, for dearly would l love to meet an ent. This should be a joyous day – and it is, though I find my joy is marred by having my horse to myself. I miss his presence, miss his touch, more than I thought I could. I find myself wishing for a reason for him to be with me once again – and I have to console myself with the thought that Mithrandir is unlikely to want a passenger for long.

 

And so to Edoras. Home of the horse-lords.

 

Now that Théoden king is released from Wormtongue’s hold, there is a welcome here. But I see the way the lady Eowyn looks at Aragorn, and something in her gaze speaks to me. I know what she feels – for is it not what I feel when I look at this dear dwarf? A longing, and I know not what for; a need, and I do not have the words to describe it. And I see the pity in his eyes as he looks at her – and I think I must again be grateful for Ada’s lessons and this elven mask which hide my feelings. For I see how Aragorn’s pity cuts Eowyn like a knife, and I know that Gimli’s pity would cut me also. And I know that pity is all he would offer me – it is only too plain that while he will be a friend, that is all he will be, and even that I think only when no better choice calls to him.

What more would I have him be? I do not clearly know.

But when we leave, and I see him share another’s horse, for no reason save a change of friendship, I know that I want more than what is between us now. I miss his touch on my hips. I miss his face in my hair. I have lost much of my pleasure in riding if he is not behind me – and I wonder if I would feel the same pleasure in being touched if we were not on horseback? What would that be?

But this is not a question to ask on the way to a battle. Time enough for all these things, now it is important only to win the coming fight. Think of the joyous dance of battle now, think of the skill of meshing weapons, think of bringing death to these orcs.

 

Do not think of the death of Gimli. It will not happen. I will not let it. I will be by his side. 

What if we are separated? – I have fought enough to know one cannot say we will not be parted in battle. Then he will protect himself with all that skill I have so admired before, and when we meet again, we will be glad.

I will not fear. I am Thranduilion. 

At least, I will not show fear.


	12. Helm's Deep

Never have I fought so long, never have I killed so many, never have I known what it is to be so tired of this joyous dance. My pleasure in my skill is almost forgot, my body almost tires. But I know it is not the effort that costs me, not the movement, not the aim and cut and parry and stab and shoot and kill, but the loneliness.

Never have I fought without my companions like this. There are Rohirrim around me, and they are worthy fighters, but they are not my group. I have no bond with them. 

Aragorn is near, but I am not with him always – and one other is not a bonded group, unless it be a declared bond. I am lonely for the dwarf – what would you make of that, Ada?

And when I learn he is trapped, underground, with no way out unless we are the victors this night – I am almost undone. It is true that such a refuge would be to his liking, I must hold on to that. If any can come out, he will. But I am afraid, as I have never been afraid before. What will become of me if I should lose him? 

I cannot be a lone elf among these men. I cannot. I am afraid.

I would not have him die when we parted on such a teasing note. I would not have him die thinking I care only for my skill.

I would not have him die.

Valar, send him back safe.

Ada, let your lessons hold, that these men do not see in this elven face the terror that I feel inside.

 

He is alive. Alive and more beautiful than any I have ever seen, dishevelled, grimy, wounded as he is. The strength and skill of him. The look of him.

The aliveness of him. Valar be praised. I hasten to him, forgetting in my joy that this is no elf, not one of my watch, and run my hands through his hair to touch his ears. He pulls back, and I flush, realising.

“Elf, what..........?” he pauses, “what does that gesture mean to you?” he finishes, more kindly than perhaps what he meant to say first.

“It means,” I hesitate, “you are my friend, companion, ref” I swallow my treacherous thoughts - refuge in a world of men, my love, my dream, my anchor – instead, I stutter “returned when I feared you dead.”

“Hmm. Of course I am not dead. There was a wager to win.”

 

And I am so filled with joy that he is alive, I do not care who has won this wager. I barely remember there was a wager.

He has returned, and I have another chance to be with him, another chance to read this riddle that he has, unknowingly, written in my heart.


	13. Battle over

Battle over. Wager won. Elf safe. 

Fuck me, the way he looks when he fights. The way he looks after. The breathing. The speed of him. He fights like – like it’s a dance. 

Shit.

Elf still bloody mad.

What is it with him and ears?

Thank Mahal we are among men. I may be no man but I know they will have the same needs after battle as any dwarf. Food. Ale. Lots of ale. 

And when I can, a damn good fuck to remind myself I am alive.

I suppose if this were an army of elves, we’d all sit round doing our hair and stroking each other’s ears. Singing. Well, little princeling can go comb his own hair. We have established we are each alive, and I think that is as far as we need go now. Later, when we are back on that cursed horse – later I will talk nice to him. For all his flighty silliness, he is not so bad a companion. A good fighter too – cannot help but give him that. 

Surprisingly good. Even though he sings.

And, to be honest, riding behind him has its compensations. Good thing for this armour, I doubt pretty elfling would like to know how hard I am for much of the time. Can’t be helped, holding his waist or hips, hair in my face, his scent in my nose, my legs against his, my cock against his arse. Definitely a compensation for the horse. And the singing.

Definitely better either find a partner soon, or wank.

But food first. And finish this pipe before anything. 

 

 

Did I really just agree to go to a forest? Just for the pleasure of showing this elf some caves? Admittedly, I would like to teach him something of what a cave should be, having heard so much of his father’s dismal palace – although I guess my father’s memories may not be unbiased. But what was I thinking?

Well, obviously I was thinking it will not happen, because we will both die in this war. 

Or if we don’t, I shall not care what road we go, so long as my mountain and family are the end of it. 

And I suppose riding behind him would be a pleasant way to cover most of the journey. Apart from the singing.

Very pleasant.

Might even be a chance to teach the elf a thing or two then.

Oh no, elves don’t. Seems a waste, really.

 

Now what has got into his pretty head?

Bloody mad elf. Trees with eyes. No good ever came of trees with eyes. Stay away. Bloody fool. 

Ents. As if that is better. And I promised to go to Fangorn. What was I thinking?

Well, apart from that. 

 

 

Hobbits safe. So relieved to see them again. Father was right – there is something about hobbits, you can’t help but feel responsible for them. I think it’s the way they are so small, and no beards. It’s like having little dwarrowlings around. 

And they have food, ale, and pipeweed. Sensible little hobbits.

Think the elf is a bit jealous of all that ent-time though. Definitely has a bit of a thing for trees of all sorts. 

Can’t be too upset. He’s still bloody singing.

 

 

So now, back we go. On the horse again. Should really be thinking about all that wizard-stuff. But it’s hard to think about anything except the feel of this elf in front of me. 

Hope there’s chance to find an opportunity in – wherever it was we are going now – before we go off to another battle. This is not a good state for a dwarf to be in.

A camp. No ease for what ails me here I think. Not a relaxed enough camp for opportunities to arise, as it were. And I am certainly not about to have one off the wrist with elf-eyes around. Even if he is oh so innocent.

Suppose he’s going to sing all night again. I honestly begin to think he doesn’t know he’s doing it. Well, I’m tired enough not to care.

 

 

This time, its bloody hobbits. Not the elf. Hobbits. 

No sense in them. Can’t leave well alone. Fool of a Took. 

So we all have to get up in the middle of the bloody night, and get back on the bloody horse. 

Oh Mahal. Warm soft elf in my hands again. Hair everywhere. Pressed up against him. This is not good. Well, actually it’s bloody lovely. Or it would be, if there was any chance of finishing the ride off with a fuck.

And if he would stop bloody singing.

 

 

So these are Rangers. And some more elves. Or half-elves or something. 

Does that mean elf will want to go off with them? And sing? Or whatever daft bloody thing they take it into their heads to do?

No. We are all off together to the paths of the dead. Doesn’t really sound a lot of fun. Suppose Aragorn knows what he is about. 

Daresay elf could always sing to the dead. That should help.


	14. I never thought

I never thought he would be more scared than I. I know not why, but the thought that he would be more scared of the shades of men long dead, than I would be scared of going underground again – no, that thought did not reach me. I suppose it should have.

Now I feel I have been at fault. I left him. I went ahead, and he was left to follow through that darkness, fear ever at his heels. I should have known, I should have been there. 

I forgot he is mortal. Forgot that shades of the dead would be far worse to him, than even the long dark of Moria could be to me. I was so concerned with my own fear of the dark caves, so concerned with not revealing my fear to any that I left him. No, be honest. Not just to conceal my fear – I wished also to conceal my feelings for him from these sons of lord Elrond. And so in hiding my love, I deserted him.

Maybe he would not have wanted me to see him. Maybe, had he had the choice, he would have chosen to overcome his fear alone. But I should have given him the choice. I should have been there.

I was afraid. Afraid of the words these brothers would use to me. Afraid of the reports they might bring to others. Afraid of the words you would use when you heard, Ada. For I know all too well the voice in which those words will be said, and indeed, I know all too well the words which will be said. I will not let myself think them. For fear of these who know me not, for fear of one who has never cared for me, I deserted my friend.

Be honest, Legolas. I deserted my love for fear of my kin, for fear of my Ada. What kind of love is that? What kind of courage?

Not enough. And I resolve I will not ever desert him or deny him again – whether it be love or friendship he asks, I will give. I will be there.

I think all this as we race on, followed by those shades, he once more with me on this horse. I will keep him safe on this Arod of mine. I will not let him fall. We ride now from battle to battle, to those ships at Pelargir. I will fight with him by my side, and I will know my skill delights him, even as his skill delights me. I will take pleasure in that joyous dance of death and killing which battle is to me. I will mesh my bow and knives with his axe, as I long have wished to do.

I will not see the looks of those brothers, sons of lord Elrond. I will not answer their raised brows, their speculations that a dwarf would be better with a Ranger. Their thoughts that a dwarf would be better anywhere they are not, that any elf would rather have as companions in this game of skill the twins of Rivendell, than this dwarf. 

I will not let myself think that if I were to deny him, they would doubtless forgive my Silvan heritage and let me comb with them, for all their bond is strong. For what of it? Centuries of combing I have had, and may have again, yet never in all that time have I felt this love that I feel for him. Never have I felt the pleasure in combing that I feel in his hands holding me as we ride. Never have I longed for any touch as I long for his on my hair – why then would I buy with his betrayal the touch of others, to whom I mean nothing?

Though I know he will not comb me, I will keep my pride. I will not beg from them that which my love will not give.

I am an elf. I can wait.

 

 

Alas for the sight of the sea, the cry of gulls. Another new feeling wakes in my heart, and I am twice lost to myself and all that I have known. This new sea-longing will be in me now until I may take ship – but it is nothing to the longing that was in me for him, and that will stay be I here or over the sea. That is part of me now forever I know, for I am an elf – I will love but once.

If I had known we came to the sea – would I still have taken this road? Would I have stayed with the Rohirrim rather than wake this new desire?

That would have been to leave him. There is only one answer to that – I cannot leave him, until the day he bids me go.

Ask rather, would I have returned to the wood of my home straight from Imladris, had I known the longings and the pain that would wake in my heart by this road?

How can I answer? To stay asleep, at peace if not at ease, for another age of the world – or to wake, and in waking feel all the questioning, burning need and pain that I feel?

I would wake.


	15. elf looking sad

One night’s pause, on this ship, sailing upriver. 

Elf looking sad. Don’t know why. 

Barely singing – not a good sign.

So I say ‘You’ve got other elves here now,’ meaning Elrond’s fancy sons – I know they are technically only half, but they seem more than that to me with all their bloody airs – ‘can’t you go and have one of your hair sessions with them – cheer you up like?’

Apparently not. Elf looks horrified at thought. Practically squeals; ‘Gimli, no of course not. They have a bond.’

‘I thought they were just brothers?’ very confused now. Elf makes no sodding sense at all – a bond is for lovers isn’t it? Like marriage?

‘Yes, they are brothers. They are brothers.’ Pause. ‘My brothers are not here.’ Pause. ‘It’s complicated.’ 

Long pause. I think he has given up. Am busy lighting pipe, mystified by the ways of bloody elves, when he says, very quietly;

‘I am still alone here.’

And I find myself saying,

‘Not alone. I have no kin here either.’ 

‘But you will not comb my hair.’ 

And of course I have no answer to that. I can’t comb his sodding hair, and he knows it. I could fuck him. I would dearly like to. Oh Mahal’s hammer, I would dearly like to shag him bandy and put a smile on his face that way. I would like to bury my face in his hair while I bury my cock in that sweet arse. I would like to hold his hair to guide his head down to take me in his mouth, and move him back and forth until I come. I would like to do all this, and have his long legs wrapped round me as he moans and sighs and cries out under me. And then, then perhaps I could hold him, then I would stroke his hair, then – no, even then, I don’t think I could comb him – it would be too close to braiding, it would mean too much to me. But I know that fucking isn’t what he wants. 

So we just sit there, watching the river flow past as this ship carries us to another battle. Another chance to kill or be killed. Another chance to die and be parted.

Because I know that even if we both die by the same blow, we will be separated – he to his elven halls, to be made anew, I to the halls of waiting – where doubtless the first dwarf to greet me will be Thorin Oakenshield ready to rebuke me for having an elf for a friend. But my dear cousins will also be there – which I have always rather looked forward to – until now, when I realise that I will never see this elf again until the world is renewed. 

And perhaps not even then.

Better not die then, Gimli. Better keep this elf alive too, I think.

We sit there. Me smoking, him singing sadly. 

I can’t comb his hair. His beautiful, silken hair.

Why would I want to?


	16. on the Pelennor field

From the ships we go straight into that joyous dance of battle. My skill is tested once more against these hordes – and I see that the twins of Rivendell are once more not as unimpressed as they would wish at what a Silvan elf can do.

But this plain is so much larger than the last few battles have been – for all my care and my desire, I am separated from him. And I have none to ask where he is, none that I wish to reveal my care to. I will not think, I will trust his skill to protect himself, as I would trust him to cover my back, and I will take pleasure in this fight.

Even as I think this, I realise that others, many no less skilled, are falling at every moment. The Valar may be watching, they doubtless know my entreaty before I can form it, but they do not have to listen. 

Once again, I must rely on Ada’s hard taught lessons to keep my face impassive and show no fear. Once again, I am afraid I may lose him, afraid I will not have the chance to understand my own heart.

I would not have him die not knowing I love him.

I would not have him die.

 

On the field, I am still cleaning my knives, not yet begun to take thought for my companions, when he comes to me. Kneeling as I wipe my blades, it is easy for him to reach down, and before I am aware of his intention he runs his hands through my hair, touching my ears. But – he is a dwarf, he touches differently to how I have been touched there by friends before. Something I cannot name shoots through me, I shudder, and look up, meeting his eyes as he speaks; 

“This time, it was I feared you dead. And am glad you are not.”

My heart beats wildly at his words, at his touch, and for a moment I cannot answer. I reach up to return the gesture;

“I feared and am glad also,” and touching him I feel that bolt through me again, I am aware of his sweat, of his scent, of his heat. I do not have words for this, for this feeling. I feel – drunk almost – but not on wine nor on battle. On him. On his presence.

And behind him I see the faces of the twins of Rivendell, frozen in shock and horror. I know that until now they have thought me eccentric, but presumed that it was due to my race, due to being brought up too close to settlements of men and dwarves, due to travelling this long while alone among mortals. 

 

Now, they see that I do not join with them, not from deference or from awareness of their bond, but because I do not wish to. They can read this gesture, they know what this dwarf does not, that in a group it does indeed mean ‘friend, companion, returned when I feared you dead’ as I told him. But between two, it means more.

Valar witness, I did not intend to deceive him. I touched him first without thinking, I had been so afraid. I did not know how to confess, I thought it would be safe to hide in half-truths. 

And now I have laid my heart open to them, but not to he who I would have know it. I must speak to him, if only I can find the words. Yet I have no knowledge of how to say these things which are in my heart, I have no knowledge of words of love – these were never lessons learnt long ago.

 

 

After the end of the day, when all are beginning to take what rest or food or healing they would wish for, I think I will have chance to speak. But it seems this is not to be. We are never alone, not while arranging a tent in camp, not while eating, not afterwards. We are, it seems, something of a novelty, intriguing to these people. Which does at least mean that the twins very pointed avoidance of me is less obvious to him, for which I am grateful. That explanation is not how I wish to approach this. 

I am afraid.

But I need not be. This dwarf is too focused on food, ale, and then smoking to be in any state for conversation. I leave him to his pleasures – I am an elf, I have waited these long ages, I can wait longer.

I watch my ever-beloved stars, I will seek courage there. And when I find it not, I retreat to our tent to take pleasure in solitary combing while none can see. Particularly not he whose hands I would have, he who I think of night and day.

He who I love, and would be more shamed in front of than any other were he to see me unbound and selfcombing, imagining my hands are his, longing for his touch on more than ear-tips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, like a couple of other chapters this grew from a drabble. sorry.


	17. in camp

Oh shit. What the fuck was that all about? Sodding stupid elf. 

Think, Gimli, what did you do? All was fine earlier. No problems with pointy-ear. Then, what happened? Go through it in order. If you still can after all that ale.

Food. With ale. All was well then. Little hobbit dancing. Drunk. But safe. So glad they both are safe. Sleepy Pippin. Went off to check on Merry I think.

More ale. With men. Elf not up for drinking lots of ale. Fuckwit elf. But still friendly. Went off to see stars. Or somesuch. Suspect he did as well – not for any other purpose.

More ale. Surprised how weak ale here is. But plenty of it.

Found had no appetite for girls. Bit concerned there would be comeback. Not at home in Dale now. Nice to have a look though.

Found that was getting very specific sort of look from one of Eomer’s band. Know what that means. Was right. Very nice. As keen to be ridden as to ride. And all that long blond hair tossing about. Mmm. Very good. Definitely what was needed.

Surely elf-eyes not that good? Would not have seen what was going on elsewhere in camp? Would he care?

Back through camp. To tent. Elf in there already. Fair enough, it is his tent as well. Aragorn’s too for that matter, and I am grateful he missed this. And hoping not to have to explain. Except of course that I can’t. Don’t know what happened.

Think, Gimli. Came in. Elf sitting on bed. His bed. Combing his hair. Elf leaps up like startled deer. Interesting. Have not seen an elf blush like that before. Even ears. Right to tips. Rather sweet actually. 

Elf not feeling sweet. Elf very angry. 

‘Can you never give warning? Have you no manners?’ Very icy, very haughty. Funny, how sometimes, just occasionally, he is so clearly the gaoler son of the gaoler king I remember Father talking about.

‘Didn’t know you’d be in here. Am off to bed now, had all I need. You carry on combing yourself, no elves here and you’re not likely to find a horse-lord to do it for you. Although I daresay you could find a few ready to do something else if you’ve a mind. But you elves don’t, do you.’ And I think I laughed. ‘Comb yourself to sleep, just be quiet about it.’

Never imagined he would care. Just a joke, like. But now he’s flung off out to his beloved stars. He can’t mind me knowing he doesn’t fuck. Surely.......

Oh. Is all that combing something else for elves? But we all saw him with his elf-friends in Lorien. It’s different in groups maybe? 

But he wanted me to comb his hair.

Surely – no, Gimli, don’t kid yourself.

Don’t understand elves. 

Don’t understand this elf.

How am I going to apologise? Do I pretend I don’t remember? 

Oh Legolas, how am I going to forget that blush, and that hair all over your sweet face?

Oh shit.


	18. the black gates

There is too much happening for a hungover dwarf to remember the foolishness of an elf. An elf he does not understand, and doubtless thinks flighty, silly, and many other words. 

I am grateful for this.

I am grateful Aragorn is too busy to continue to try and explain the ways of elves.

 

It occurs to me, that had things fallen out differently, had I spoken my heart outside Minas Tirith, we might no longer be on one horse. We might no longer be friends.

I shiver at the thought, and know that I will not have the courage again to try and speak – this will remain in my heart now, for I know that it is not what he would wish to hear. He has different desires; I think, remembering his longing for children, there must be a dwarrowdam back in his mountain. He never speaks so, but dwarves are a private people. Besides, none of us speak much of home anymore. The hobbits I think do, to one another. 

Aragorn, of course, has no home, and all this war is his one chance for all that he has desired so long. 

Gimli did talk much of his parents and home at first – and even now, I think there is still a longing in him, a pain which I can but envy. I have no desire to return to the realm of my lord king. There will be little welcome for me, except from the trees I have known so long. And again, I wonder what it is to have a father who cares so much that he carries a picture of you when he leaves you. What is it like to be loved that much when you are small?

I think he no longer speaks of home because he too has had half-heard news which leads him to fear what home has become. Worse for him, for I have few to fear for – those I was close to are fighters, and fighting on our home ground – I have little fear for my group. I know not what it is like to fear for aged parents, or for young cousins.

 

I know what it is to fear for a friend though. I determine not to be afraid in this, which may well be our last battle. I will be at his side this time. I will be with him in victory, or I will share his death. 

This time, I will not be afraid of the unknown.

I would not have him die without me by his side. I would die first, I would die that he may return to his mountain.

But, I think, I would rather live to see him smile again.

 

This time, we are side by side when the battle ends. This time we have fought together again, and the joyous meshing of weapons, of bodies knowing each other’s skill has been again intoxicating. Or is it his battle-heat, his scent, his closeness? I do not know, I do not know myself, or my feelings. This time we turn to each other as the dark hordes flee, knowing we are triumphant. 

Our eyes meet; carefully axe, knife and bow are placed on the ground; carefully hands stretch out to touch ears and hair, and I think the world cannot be better than this.

Suddenly he smiles. He seizes me, and pulls me into an embrace that almost crushes me – 

‘This, master elf, is a dwarven gesture. You are my friend, we live, we have won.’

And as I find there is something that could make my world better, I hold him, am held by him, so close, so close – and, and I wish it were forever.


	19. and so the final battle is over

And so the final battle is over. We would have lost, but that two brave hobbits saved us all. And the eagles, as they ever do, came sweeping down at that final moment when all seemed hopeless. 

That moment, that moment when all seemed perfect. He, turning to me in the joy of victory, the exchange of elven gesture – and then his embrace. I thought my world renewed indeed.

Together we searched for Pippin – poor little hobbit – so nearly lost – and even I could not have begrudged him those moments in Gimli’s arms being carried to safety. He will be well soon, I am told, and my heart is glad that all our little hobbits will be together again and someday return to the one who waits for them in Rivendell – and beyond that to their families. 

I know that he too wishes to return to his family, when the time is right, he says. The envy and longing is still in my heart as ever it was – I know there is no need for me to hurry home – but I find I am no longer bitter. Perhaps because that dwarven belief in happy endings, that once I so hated, may yet be justified. Perhaps because I begin to see that the elfling that was so hurt is long gone, and I have survived to become the elf I am. One who can call a dwarf ‘friend’, and in my heart, ‘love’.

Now is the time for rejoicing. Later, I daresay there will be time for thoughts of the future, for thoughts of ceremony, for thoughts of a new world with the enemy gone – for thoughts of a world of men. I know my people will be leaving these shores, I know that any who stay will begin to dwindle, and I do not yet see what choice I can make. How can I leave him? Yet, will he wish this friendship, forged as it is in battle and war, to continue into the peace? Long ago, it seems, though I know it is not, we made a bargain to visit caves and forest together – but that is only a step on our journey home. Beyond that – who can say? I cannot see.

Tonight I think will be more simple pleasures – food, wine, song – ale I hope for my dwarf – I do not know what else in this gathering of men. For all my time among them, there are still moments when I think I do not understand their lives. From things I have heard, I suspect there will be other pleasures for those who are not elves – not love, but perhaps a fleeting glimpse. 

 

Now I will retreat to watch at Pippin’s side. I was right. I was too right for my own comfort. And so heart-sick, lonely, aching and crying inside, I will go to him – for I remember that he and Merry have ever been friends, and perhaps he longs for Merry even in his healing sleep. 

Here too, no-one will ask the questions I do not wish to answer. There is none here to ask why I do not dance, why I do not sing, as all have heard elves do. None to ask why I am not with the twins of Rivendell, who are also elven. None to ask why I am alone.

Alone, watching by this sleeping hobbit, I can shape the answers in my thoughts, and try and understand how all I thought was gold has turned to dust.

I do not dance or sing because I am not an elf in a fable. I am tired from fighting, I ache, I have not the clothes or voice or skill. I have heard too many rebukes for my lack.

I am not with the twins because, as no mortal seems to understand, they are half-elven, Noldor, and I am Silvan; despite my lord king’s estate, nothing but wood-elf through and through. And because they have seen me friends with a dwarf and think me lower than even a common wood-elf now.

And I am alone, because that dwarf, that – and I do not have the words to express it – dwarf – has chosen to go and take his pleasure elsewhere. Has chosen – I am not even now sure of the words – to go with a Rohirrim. I do not know where this – I have the word –tryst – will take place. I hope it is not anywhere I may see, but I fear that that dwarf, that Naugrim, has taken this man to his bed. And his bed is near mine. 

So I will watch by this hobbit. Pretending it is from care and love, and indeed I do care for him – though at this time, I know this but do not feel it. At this time, I feel only pain. Betrayal. 

Jealousy.

Ugly word. Ugly feeling.

Yet that is what this is, I know. Worse than any momentary envy I have felt in years long gone, when Ada turned aside from me to favour my brothers. That is related to this feeling as a little hearth fire is related to those fires that even now smoke from Orodruin.

I would that I could close the eyes of my mind. I would that I could stop these pictures from playing in my head. I would that I had not seen them together. Had not seen their mouths pressed close. Had not seen hands entwined in hair.

I am an elf. I am not supposed to feel this way. I do not even know what this is, but I want his mouth on mine, his hands in my hair. Whatever this is, it seems to start where combing finishes – and I – I want to be with him like that. But he saw me not. He does not look at me in that way.

I do not wish to picture what more they are doing. I do not wish to know what he will have from this man that I cannot give.

But at the same time – be honest, Legolas – I do wish I knew. 

For I wish I could give it, better, a thousand times better, tomorrow, and claim him back. I wish – I wish I were mortal, for then I would know what to do, then he might see me. 

But I am not. And he does not see me. I am – not nothing – but very little to him, but he is so much to me.

And so, sitting by this sleeping hobbit, I go down into the pain and agony of love rejected. 

No, I will not sing tonight.

 

 

The light is changing. Dawn comes. This long, long night is over. I am weary, as I have not been for many years, weary with waking all night. Weary of my thoughts. Weary of my loneliness. I begin to think that perhaps I shall cross the sea, perhaps in the West I could find some peace. 

I thought I would not be able to go, not able to leave this middle-earth while he still walked it – yet I find that if he sees me not, there is little reason to stay.

Pippin stirs. His eyes open, and he looks at me;

“Legolas! Then all is not lost? The eagles came in time?” then he remembers; “but Frodo? Sam? They are dead, aren’t they?”

“No, master hobbit,” I say, smiling, “the eagles found them. They are safe – though they sleep still. They are weary, and I think hurt in mind and body. But the king will make them well.”

He smiles and drifts off. 

I stay. Glad am I that I was here – he would have been alone and afraid otherwise. This little hobbit needs me – and that is balm for my wounded heart.

But the camp stirs, and noise from outside wakes him again. This time, he looks at me more closely;

“Legolas, you do not look......”he pauses, “you look sad.”

I am surprised that a hobbit can read this elven face. Am I so grieved that it is plain to any? Ada, where are your lessons now?

I shake my head, “No, Pippin, I am well, but weary. All is well,” I think to speak of another, “and by now the message will have reached Minas Tirith, and Merry too will know that all has turned out as we had hoped.”

His brow creases in thought.

“Merry. Merry will be jealous to have missed this. I must make it up to him,” jealous? I think – oh to be a hobbit and have no more cause for jealousy than to miss a battle. He continues his thought; “and Aragorn will be king, and we can return to the Shire.”

He closes his eyes, and I think he sleeps again. But no, he is thinking – a new pastime for this hobbit – “will you go back to your wood, Legolas?”

“I suppose so,” but I cannot make myself sound as happy to return as he does.

“No, you wished to see Treebeard, and Fangorn – and you have to see Gimli’s caves. Poor Legolas...”he breaks off, something in my face must have warned him, “Legolas – where is Gimli? Is he with Frodo and Sam?”

I hesitate too long, and his hobbit-mind jumps quickly; “You are here alone, something ails you – where is Gimli? Is he....?” he stops again, I see fear in his eyes, “Legolas, were he wounded you would be at his bed, not mine – Gimli is dead isn’t he?”

Shocked that he has read my heart even this much, to know where I would be, I cannot respond quickly or strongly enough to convince him;

“Pippin, no indeed, Gimli is well. Gimli is...” the fatal hesitation, “is celebrating in the way of dwarves.”

But he does not believe me, and I know he fears that something he did has caused his friends death – I know that since Moria, since the palantir, he has thought himself an ill-wind.

“I cannot leave you to find him,” I say, desperate not to be the one to go looking, “when he wakes, he will come – or he will be brought.”

I stay with him, but I am aware of his unease, and in this busy camp there is none I can send to look for my friend without it being questioned. Besides, there is a part of me that would know the worst. I know I must find Gimli. I begin to gather my courage, and when Aragorn comes to check on this hobbit, and take him to his kin, I go. 

I make for that part of camp where we left our packs and bedrolls earlier yesterday evening – I do not know what I shall find, I do not wish to see. But I think of that little hobbit’s face filled with worry, and I go. 

I approach, and see my unused bedroll, spread beside his. He is there, but I realise he is alone, and I know not what to think of that. I kneel beside him to wake him, and realise that, against all habit or reason in camp, he is naked under the blanket. The realisation that my guesses were not wrong, and he did not spend all night alone, tears me again, and I feel my ear-tips flush with jealousy once more. I remind myself of my resolve – he has done nothing wrong, he knows not my heart or my longings – and I could not have given him whatever it was he wanted last night. He wanted, needed, something I cannot give, cannot even name – how can I grudge it when another pleases him? I will not. This peaceful sleep – I am his friend – I should be glad for him.

But I am not.

I am jealous.

I want him to want me. I want him to teach me what these feelings are.

My hand on his shoulder, I try to shake him awake – but as well shake awake a mountain – I speak; 

“Gimli, Gimli, wake, you are looked for.”

His eyes open, and blearily, sleepily, he looks at me and smiles, a smile heartbreaking in its happiness. His hand comes up to mine; “Elf. You are..........” he pauses, changes what he was going to say as he focuses, “where have you been? Who looks for me?”

“I have been watching with Pippin, I thought it best not to return here while you had company,” I make myself speak lightly, “our hobbits are asking for you. I cannot convince them you are well, but asleep – so you must wake and show them that you yet live.”

I cannot read his expression. He begins to rise, reaching for his clothes, and I cannot help but flush – in all this travelling, this is the first time I have seen him fully naked and a wave of longing rushes through me – longing for what I hardly know. I had not realised how strong he is, how much muscle lies under all that armour. I had not expected to see such obvious power and grace – and I wonder at the ways of dwarves, that they cover such beauty in so much metal, that they hide themselves so from the world. I had not realised his inkings spread so far up his arms, over his chest and back – and I wonder how they feel to touch. I almost reach out without knowing what for, but I stop myself, grateful for elven speed which I hope means he sees only surprise at his lack of clothes. 

He grunts, and turning away begins to dress, and I – I begin to search for words to talk in our usual way, to continue our friendship. For if there can be nothing more, I will not lose this for something that is merely a dream. I will keep my feelings in my heart, I will not speak, I will not let my face show my thoughts.

I am Thranduilion, this I can do.


	20. waking

“Gimli, Gimli, wake, you are looked for.”

Elf shaking me. Elf’s sweet singing stopped. Fussing about something. Foolish elf. Sod off. Want to sleep. 

Tired. Ache. 

Shit. Am naked. 

Not just aching from battle. 

Think, Gimli. Shit, head hurts. How much did I drink?

Doesn’t matter, concentrate Gimli. 

Shit. Am waking naked, know I fucked someone last night. A lot. Was bloody good. Memories of blond hair, moans, cries, gasps.

Elf here. Elf holding my shoulder. 

Really? Did we? 

Fuck. All those months wanting him, and too sodding drunk to remember.

Is he ok?

Shit. Did I hurt him?

Look at him, Gimli, smile. He is here. At last. 

Reach out, take his hand. 

“Elf. You are......” oh shit. Stop. No. We didn’t. Elf not curled up beside me. Was not elf. Was some bloody Rohirrim. 

Elf did not come back last night. Last seen heading off towards wine or possibly bloody stars, before I found that whatever-his-name-was. Elf does not fuck. Elf does not see me that way.

Elf never will.

“Where have you been?” oh fuck Gimli, you are not his father, what is it to me where he has been? Wait, what did he just say? “Who looks for me?” 

Not you, you daft bloody elf, even your mangling of Westron isn’t that bad. 

“I have been watching with Pippin, I thought it best not to return here while you had company,” oh shit, oh fuck, oh bugger, he knows, “our hobbits are asking for you. I cannot convince them you are well, but asleep – so you must wake and show them that you yet live.”

Very smug. Bloody superior elf.

I roll to get up, reaching for my tunic and breeches. Forgetting, until he flinches, that in all this time, we have been wary of each other’s bodies. Sod it. I know I am a dwarf, and not desirable to an elf. But I also know I am a damn fine dwarf, and desirable to dwarves, men and women – and have had the proof often enough. 

But as I turn back, boots and all on, I notice that sweet flush is back, on ears, and cheeks. Oh. What does that mean? 

I follow him across camp, towards our hobbits, and I realise that last night’s fuck was not enough for peace of mind. Not with that gorgeous elven arse in front of me, not with the vision of that blush, not with the memory of hair unbound as I saw it in the camp outside Minas Tirith. 

The Rohirrim may be willing, and good in bed, but, Durin help me, I want that elf.

Why has he stopped singing?


	21. wedding day (1)

Wedding day. Still can’t really imagine wanting to get married – oh I know I may well, one day. Not going to be that many sodding heroes of Middle Earth available in Erebor – I’d say I’ll be in with a good chance. But. Think of never fucking around – one only. Not sure I can see me going for that.

Still. Aragorn is happy.

And so are all these bloody elves. Singing.

Suppose they think it gives them a bit of a stake in Gondor. Stake in the future – marrying one of their own to the king.

Bloody elves.

Right, Gimli. Forget the elves. Are you ready? Finery on. Best braids. Very formal, very nice. After all, it matters today – not the only dwarf here now. My new king has sent formal representatives to this coronation. Which was good, since they also brought me news from home. Have to admit I do feel better for knowing parents alright, for knowing none of Erebor’s precious dwarrowlings were hurt in all the battles. That of all our losses at home, and there were many, my funny little cousin has made it through. – Occurs to me to wonder if that is because he was kept well away from any fighting. Time enough to find out when I get home.

Anyway. Home is safe, parents are safe, this is a feast-day, and I should go. We should go, I mean. Daft elf is out on balcony. Singing. Been ready for ages. Rather sweet of him to wait for me – think he’s a bit nervous about all these other elves. Apparently a lot of them are a bit posh – although if he’s a prince? 

Daft sodding elf.

“Come on, then, master elf,” I call, “your fussing with your hair out there will make us late,” and he comes through. 

Fuck.

Haven’t seen him all dressed up before.

Durin’s great cock, he looks good.

Good enough to eat.

Shit, I thought I was used to the sight of him now, but no, seeing him in all his fine silks, glittering circlet, shimmering along, his hair like living, flowing gold, his sapphire eyes looking at me with something I cannot read, I feel the same wave of heat and desire that I felt all those months ago on Caradhras. And he is just as unattainable.

More so.

This is an elf-prince. 

I am just a dwarf. Dwarf-lord, maybe, but – still just a dwarf.

“Well, master dwarf,” he says, “are we going to see the wedding?”

Breathe, Gimli. Say something.

“That is skilled work, that circlet,” I say, “well-crafted. White-gold, is it? Set with diamonds? – must have taken time.” I am just commenting, meaning a compliment to his people’s craft, but it seems it was the wrong thing to say.

“Well-crafted, and well-paid for,” he snaps, glaring suddenly, “long ago, every penny of the price was paid. Whatever you may have heard. My kin pay their debts.”

Fuck him. I am angry at his words – I am not bloody Thorin, he should not speak to me as though I am. He is not his precious sodding father – he has been my friend these months – is this now changed because there are other fuckwit elves around? For a moment my hurt and anger must show in my face – for a moment I am tempted to give in to my temper, to release all my tension and wish to hurt. I imagine how it would go – how it would feel to lay hands on him in anger. I know I am stronger, his reach and speed would not help him much in so small a space. I think I could pin him down quick enough, I could have him on the floor under me – but at that thought I stop. I know too well what I would desire then. How could I not – I have been wanting to have him under me for months. I can imagine how he would breathe, how he would resist – and at that thought, I stop. I would not do that. If I thought that by bringing him down, I might change his anger to passion – then I would. But – he is an elf. Elves don’t.

And so I say “I did not mean that, I simply wished to praise the beauty of your jewels. – I was not looking to restart an old argument.”

I thought we were beyond that.

“Are jewels truly the only thing a dwarf can ever see?” he says, bitter – and I don’t know why. “Are you so blind?” – but this is quiet enough I can ignore it – I don’t know what the bloody elf is upset about now.

He sweeps out of the room, and I follow. 

Which does at least give me a good view of his arse.


	22. wedding day (2)

Wedding day. Watching Aragorn’s face as he approaches his bride, I smile, meeting his eyes, thinking of all the days he has longed for this, of all the days he has worked for this. And I am glad for him, even as my eyes move past him, to see Gimli, in all his finery, in all his beauty, and I wish that I could find something to say to tell him how I feel. But he would not want to hear – he does not see me.

 

And now, all the feasting over, all the drinking and dancing done, I think I will return to my – our – chamber and watch the stars from the balcony.

But when I get there, I realise where my friend has been this last while. Oh.

Never has he done this before. Not brought one of his many, many – ‘friends’ – to his bed in a room we share. Am I so little to him that he does not even think of how this leaves me? 

I suppose, I think dully, I should be grateful he was here first. It would surely be worse to be trapped out there on the balcony, forced to hear them – whatever they are doing. I can hear more than I want to from out here in the corridor, as I pause. The heat rises in my face, I feel my ears flush as I hear his voice, his breathing – and I know that any not-elf would not be able to hear. But I am an elf, and I can hear him. I can hear the other as well, but – I do not care about him. I have heard these noises from others before now, I am not so very sheltered. But to hear my – my friend – I cannot bear it. I am so jealous. 

Again.

And so – I do not know – longing. Interested. Ashamed.

Quickly, I turn away. I do not want to hear. That is not how I would learn what this – this – I have now at least learnt the word – this fucking – is. I will find another balcony, I will watch the constant stars from somewhere else. Alone, I hope. I do not wish for company this night, as another layer of pain slices into my poor heart.

But as I sit and stare out at my beloved stars, I do not dwell on my heart’s pain. I have other thoughts tonight. I wonder what it is like to marry. To bind oneself to another for all time. Today, watching, for the first time I wondered how that would be – before it has never seemed something that could happen to me, to love like that. Today, today I understood what I long for. I wonder how it feels to love and be so loved. I cannot truly imagine. 

And suddenly I wonder – how do love and ‘fucking’ fit together? If he fucks anyone – does that mean he cannot love? Or is it different? I do not know, I do not know how it is for dwarves.

I barely know how it is for elves.

I shake myself – this is a joyous day, Legolas, do not fall into your own pain again. Rejoice for the end of war, for the coming of the king of men, for the restoration of the White Tree. I think through the day, the songs, the praise of the halflings, the joy, the dances. It has been good to dance with my own kind. I think of the happiness on the faces of the halflings, of the respect for marriage they have – and I smile at the remembrance of their quiet teasing of Sam, predicting another wedding when they get home. Truly, these hobbits are wise in the way of living I think. I wish they had taught more to the elves.

And my thoughts move on. I think of the words of the Lord Celeborn, when he spoke to me during the evening – he bothered to find me during these celebrations. Though I am not entirely sure I am glad he did.

“Thranduilion,” he called me, “I have news you will be interested to hear. I met with your King not long ago – there has been much fighting in your homeland. You are indeed fortunate to have a homeland left to which to return.”

Trying for graciousness, I answered that I was indeed fortunate, that my King’s army was great. Lord Celeborn, once as Sindarin as I, has been among Noldor and Galadhrim for too long – for he sneered.

“Perhaps. But without the fighters of Lorien, I think your King would not now be so well. Be that as it may,” they always put that in so you do not have chance to retort, “your ‘Mirkwood’ is no longer – it is now to be known as Eryn Lasgalen, your King and I agreed. He will keep the northern part, while I take the southern into my realm – the middle area we have gifted to the Beornings and the woodmen. No doubt that will please you especially – for you have great fondness for mortals, do you not?” and his gaze encompassed the whole of the room, but trailed particularly over my dearest friend, “For your peace of mind, Thranduilion, I can assure you that no mention of your ‘closest friend’ has reached your King – and it will not from my people.”

But this time, this time I am not so easily cowed, I will not try to hide our friendship as I was tempted to do at first from his grandsons, the twins of Rivendell, and I answer;

“Word may reach him soon or late or not at all – but if it is as you say, I doubt my King has time to think on the doings of one warrior.”

He smiles, and, so kindly, says, “However, as your ‘closest friend’ is no elf, I give you permission, I encourage you, to comb with my people – as you did when our guest. I imagine you must be deep in need after all these long months,” and his gaze runs over my hair and ears.

Again I find my Ada’s lessons in pride hold me, “Indeed I thank you, but I do not think it necessary. I have waited this long time, I can wait until I am with my own group again,” and now I must hold to my word, however tempted I may be.

His eyes swept over me once more, and his brow raised – but he simply bade me farewell and left.

Leaving me to think over his words. Which I have avoided doing until now – but now I must.

So. There has been, as I guessed, much fighting – so I will definitely be rebuked for not being there. Not that I would be praised if I had been, but that will not be the point. 

I do not know what to make of this news of a division of the Woodland Realm. I am not sad to see some land formally ceded to the Beornings and the woodmen – it has long seemed to me that this would be a fair reward for all their help – even unwitting – in the war against the spiders. But – for Ada to cede land – is unheard of. And to the Galadhrim. I wonder what he is thinking – there will be a strategy, there will be a plan. There always is.

It is perhaps, partly, an acknowledgement that my brothers will only wish to rule if Ada falls in battle – for he will never go West, he has always said this. He has no desire to spend forever with the Noldor, he will stay in his wood unless he goes to Mandos.

And my brothers will rule, as they do everything, together. And, if I am honest, they will never be the strong King Ada is – perhaps that is the answer to this. He prefers to cut our realm down to size now, from a position of strength, as an act of generosity, rather than have it lost through weakness if he were gone. Yes, I think, that is the way Ada thinks, that would make sense – and the land that is left will be much, especially if we have suffered losses.

I daresay some would be surprised that this prideful King thinks not of his third son – but not this third son. Nor am I surprised there was no word from my Ada, just the tidings that would come to any wanderer. Hurt. But not surprised. When I return I will have to beg much pardon for all my faults – again. 

And I find I am unable to stop myself comparing this, with the news that came from Erebor, that those dwarven ambassadors brought. Undoubtedly better news, but prefaced, I noticed, by a reassurance that Gimli’s family were well. I am not sure whether that was from his king, or from the speaker himself – but I know there was also a letter. Not for all, but just for him, from his parents I assume – I did not like to ask. I do not know how to mention his parents, there is too much history there – and I remember again that locket. Dwarves know how to love.

As for the other – the taunts – Lord Celeborn is the twins’ grandfather. My hair does not look uncombed – I know how to keep myself tidy. I do indeed long for combing – but I long for Gimli’s hands, Gimli’s touch, Gimli alone – I will not find consolation with a group that means nothing to me, that has heard rumours – I do not know what rumours. I do not know what he – they – are implying. The comments about my ‘closest friend’, the reminder he is no elf, the reassurance that Ada will not hear from them – what is he hinting? 

But – suddenly I understand. He is hinting, he believes – or wishes to seem to believe – that I – that we – my ears burn. He implies that I have – I am not good with these words – that I have given myself – yet am uncombed. That – that would not be love. How could that be?

I suppose that is what is happening even now, in the room where I should be resting. That – that which I heard – that fucking – that cannot be love – he cannot love every night another. I have supposed that for dwarves, for men, perhaps for all mortals, these things can be divided – but not for elves. At least, I thought not for elves.

Can they?

Could I?

Could I be with him like that – even if he loves me not?

Would I wish to? To hear him breathe like that for me? To touch him, be touched by him? To kiss?

Without love?

Can Galadhrim do this? 

Is that what Lord Celeborn was trying to tell me?

I do not understand. I shake myself – leave these thoughts, Legolas, you came out here to watch the stars and forget. Besides, tonight I have another riddle to read – what did it mean that my friend was so angry when I was dancing? Why did he stare so at me? Surely he would not wish to join such elven foolishness? 

I had thought to ask him – but he was gone. Had found his own distraction. 

Perhaps he was not even aware of staring at me. I cannot read his thoughts. I do not think he sees me.

And earlier – when I came in from waiting for him, when I saw him as he is – a dwarf-lord in all his finery – so strong, so fierce, so beautiful. When, in my confusion of feeling, I reacted so haughtily – when I heard Ada in my words – throwing a simple comment back at him – what did his intake of breath, his clenching of fists, his almost lunge at me – what did it mean? 

Anger I suppose.

I wonder how it would have felt if he had laid hands on me in his rage, if we had fought? 

Shamingly, I suspect I might fleetingly have enjoyed the closeness of him, the strength of him. I would have felt his hands on me, and I know I would not be able to best him.

Oh, I am faster. And I have greater reach. But I suspect I could only win by hurting him – and that I could not do. So any fight that was a fight of friends as we now are – he would win.

And if he did? I wonder – if he pinned me down – how would that feel? What would he do then?

But I am grateful I did not find out. That is not how I would have his hands on me. That is not how I would have his breath on my face, his weight on my body. That is not how I would hold him, how I would learn his body.

I am grateful we did not fight.

And so I have another reason to rejoice this night – I have still my most dear friend. In the morning – all will be as it was. This passing fancy of his will be gone – they always are, I have learned, and nothing will have changed between us, for good or ill.

But – I wish he had seen my beauty, not just that of my jewels.


	23. this is a cave

At last. We have left all the singing elves – oh lucky Aragorn – all the joyous procession, all the horse-lords – we are, for a short while, alone together, at last, in these caves. Alone for a time in these caves before we rejoin the feasting and rejoicing at Edoras. These wondrous caves. 

Not that I didn’t enjoy all the wedding, all the feasting, all the drinking, - maybe not all the horse-lords, but certainly a few. I am a dwarf; I like feasts, drink, and fucking. What else could I want after a long campaign like this one?

Don’t even start to try and answer that, Gimli. Enjoy what there is, get ready to go home.

Could definitely have done without all the bloody elves singing, though. Just gets a bit much after a while.

And all the elf-dancing. They bloody love it – I don’t know why. Always thought the only reason for dancing was a way to get to the main event as it were – a bit of a grope first maybe. But these elves – must be something in it for them. 

Didn’t like seeing this elf dancing. Not with others I mean. Didn’t like that at all. My elf. I’m supposed to hold him, not anyone else. 

Except – I’m not. 

He does not see me that way. 

Elves don’t fuck. Hence the dancing, maybe.

And he doesn’t even want me to dance. Not that I could. Not elf dancing.

Nice for this elf to have a bit of company I suppose. I assume he went off and did his weird combing thing in the evenings – he certainly wasn’t around much then. Hence the fucking. Not that I wouldn’t have otherwise. But it’s not quite so easy, particularly since we seem to be labelled as ‘great friends of the king, must always share a room’. 

Mind you, since the walking-in-on-elf-doing-his-hair incident, we have both been a bit careful. Still don’t understand that one. 

Anyway. We are here now. No-one else. Just me and the elf – and the caves.

 

This is a cave, master elf. This is beauty. 

He’s twitching already. Barely inside. Still singing. I suppose that is a good sign – I think it’s when he stops I will need to worry.

 

These caves! They are indeed everything I remembered them. I do not have the words – I am hoping this elf will craft the words I need for such beauty. 

Alright so far, I think. Elf still singing. 

 

Then I make an error. I am seized with the lust of dwarves, I wish to see more, I wish to continue, to penetrate the depths of these caverns. To see what may lie hidden further within these hills. To find the jewels and rocks that call to me.

“This, master elf, this is the fullest extent I have so far explored. But I can see, up ahead, even more wonders,” and I lead on.

Talking. 

 

Oh sweet Mahal. Elf has finally stopped singing. 

It’s odd. I almost miss it. Apart from when he speaks he has sung constantly for the last how many months is it now?

Finally I have found something that stops him.

Thank fuck for that.

 

But then I turn to show him something. And I see his face.

Not in battle, not at the bridge of Khazad-dum, not facing trolls, orcs, wargs, oliphaunts, not even the balrog – never have I seen or imagined such naked fear in his eyes.

“Elf – what is wrong?”

He looks at me, and I see he cannot breathe properly.

“Gimli, you did not warn me we would be going into caves you did not know. I feel too deep. These are not even the passages of Moria, these are wild caves. I feel no echo of love of home here. I – I would not go on. Please.”

Can’t resist it.

“So, in Fangorn – there will be no areas of forest you have not seen? No wild places? Nothing at which a dwarf may feel unease?”

He is silent.

“Do you not trust me, elf?”

It should not work. Gimli, that was cruel. But I see him raise his head and I see his fist clench on itself, he blinks, licks his lips, and;

“Of course I trust you. I will follow.”

I turn and continue. Do not think about that tongue. Do not think about those lips.

 

Silence. Just as I have remembered these caves. Silent but for the echoing sound of water.

And that breathing. How he breathes. So soft, yet scared. So close to a moan of desire – yet it is fear. So close to the lustful, needy panting I would have from him. Yet it is fear.

It is fear that keeps him close.

Fear that makes him so dependent. 

Fear that makes him reach out as though to touch my hand and then draw back.

And, Durin fuck me with his hammer, it feels good. To have him like this, panting, needing, at my mercy in this cave – I am hard as ever I have been.

Not so bloody smug now, are we, elf?

Bit closer to pleading? Ready to go down on your knees? Ready to go down on me?

Mahal help me, hearing him breathe like that, I want to fuck him til the cave rings with his cries.

But he does not see me that way.

 

The caves are all that I remembered, all that I hoped, the crystals, the lights, the sounds of water, the silence.

His breathing.

But I imagined this elf singing here.

 

Suddenly I recall the other time in all this long journey when the elf stopped singing. The morning after the fall of Barad-dur. He was very quiet, and talked about the sea whenever he did speak. He seemed well when we were with the hobbits, but when we were alone, he was uneasy. I thought it was just the bloody sea-longing – but I was wrong. 

He was jealous. Jealous because I fucked some horse-lord. Not of the fucking - elves don’t - he was jealous because he thought I had found someone I would rather be with. I only realised when he asked if I would be riding with “your new friend” – and I had to confess that he was not a friend, that I did not even know his full name. I didn’t mention that I didn’t know any of his name, or that I wouldn’t even know his face. That I was so drunk I have no idea which horse-rider I fucked that night, and I hope I never meet him again, and if I do, I can only be thankful he didn’t understand the khudzul I was speaking when I fucked him. Because I’m fairly sure I was far enough gone to have been fantasising about this elf.

This elf, who was jealous because he thought I would rather share a horse with another. Oh daft sodding elf. But he felt jealous. Over me. As I have felt over him. As I felt, when first those bloody twins arrived. As I felt when all those sodding elves brought Arwen to Minas Tirith.

He is my friend. I am his friend.

Shit.

I do not know what Father will say.

Shit.

I do know exactly what Father would say right now – “Gimli, this is no way to treat a friend”. 

 

I slow, I am ashamed. I reach out and take his hand. He clutches at mine, and I gently stroke his skin with my thumb. So soft, but for those tell-tale archers’ calllouses, yet so much strength gripping me. 

He is still afraid. And I find I am talking again, as I would to some small dwarrowling, telling him the stories I was told of how these crystals came to be. Telling him how they can be shaped and made more. How to reveal what is not yet seen. Words I did not know were in me pour forth, stories, history, dreams, desires. All that makes a dwarf’s heart beat.

All except love.

I have not yet loved.

 

His fear is calming. His breath more normal. 

Still not singing though.

 

We come to a perfect chamber. Walls glowing with crystals, columns of minerals glowing with colours, reflections of further wonders glimmering in the water that flows down one wall.

I stop in wonder. Lost in the beauty, I settle, back to one wall, pulling him down beside me, to gaze my fill.

I keep hold of his hand. And as he folds himself, graceful as ever, next to me, I clasp it in both of mine.

Still talking, still telling him what is in me. What it is to be a dwarf.

His eyes, half-seen beside me, hold some mysterious thought. I wish I knew what he thinks. But he never talks beyond the moment.

He sighs, and closes his eyes. 

Breathing peaceful now.

Still not singing.

 

As I continue to talk, fables now, the old stories that every dwarrowling knows, but not this elf, I move one hand away from his. Gently, greatly daring, I put my arm around his shoulder and pull him down to rest against me. Cradling him like the little elfling I think he must once have been. I almost stroke his hair, his beautiful hair – but I don’t. If I thought it was what he wanted – I would. But he is an elf. I don’t know what he wants. I daren’t do anything that would hurt him. But, there is no other word for it, he nestles into me, his other hand reaching up – then he flinches away from my beard and rests it on our clasped hands on my knee.

The flinch away hurts. Even now, is that which makes me desirable as a dwarf so awful to him?

And it reminds me that there will never be more than friendship between two so different, that all my fantasies must remain that – that blond Rohirrim are as close as I can have.

He does not, he cannot, see me the way I would have him see me.

But this friendship is much.

My voice trails off, but the cave is no longer silent.

Elf bloody singing.


	24. here in Edoras

Dance, Legolas, dance. Join this dance of the Rohirrim, here in Edoras, join this dance of warriors. Something inside me tells me to dance – for he is watching. Show him how you can move, show him your skill, show him your beauty. For I know I am fair, I know I can dance, I know I am more skilled at this moving than any dwarf, any man or even our dear nimble hobbits for that matter. Indeed, as a wood-elf, I know I am more skilled, more trained, more practised at this wild dancing than any other race on this Middle Earth. I can move faster, I can avoid more of these obstacles they throw down as part of this game, I can feel the music in my veins better than any other in this hall.

And yes, I am showing off, Ada, for once in my life I am, and I do not care. I am not a prince here, I am not abusing my rank, I am just another fighter, I am not anything special to anyone. I am just letting something out of me, I am releasing all this nervous tension which has built in me over these last weeks as the one I love fails to see me, as I am left ignored night after night, as I have none that I care for to comb with for month after month. 

And yes, I know I look good. I know my hair shines in the lights, I know my body moves faster and better than these men can manage, I know my clothes are more comely, my skin clearer, all of me more perfect than any Rohirrim will ever be. This is not pride, it is a fact – it is how elves are. Were any other elves joining this dance, I would not be so sure of myself – but they are Noldor or Galadhrim, they consider themselves above this. Besides, I am not blind – the one I love looks mainly for blonds – and Noldor are not blond. 

Does he see me? I do not know. I cannot see him right now. Earlier, I thought he did – thought he looked at me with something different in his eye – I do not know what.

But if he cannot see me, others can. I can read their faces, I know I look good and it is reflected in their eyes. 

I do not wish them to desire me – but that any dwarf is ready to covet something valued by others – or so I was always told – and even if this be another old lie, I have no other weapons in this hunt so will try this one. It may work. Nothing else has.

Look at me, I think. Gimli, look at me. See me as I would have you see me. Want me. 

But as the dance ends, and I slow and stop, I rake the room with my eyes – and am just in time to see him leave. With yet another of these riders.

And once more, I must thank my Ada for all those lessons as I find that even now, I can keep my elven mask on. I can accept compliments from friends, parry advances from others, and make my way determinedly towards the wine, without, I hope, any reading the hurt inside. I have now played every card I know of, and still he does not see me. I have fought beside him, I have travelled, talked and laughed with him, I have protected him on water and on horseback, I have followed him into his caves and listened to him, I have sung to him, I have dressed in my finest clothes and jewels for him, I have touched ears with him, I have, shamingly, allowed him to see me hair unbound and combing, and now I have danced for him. Still he does not see me, and I do not know what else to do.

But, I find, not everyone is as blind as him.

“It seems your dwarf has a wandering eye, Legolas,” the twins have cornered me, for the purpose, it seems, of dripping poison in my ear – I wonder how it is that Lord Elrond, so wise in all else, is so blind to the faults of his dear sons? Fatherly love, I suppose. There must be more of that in Rivendell than in Mirkwood.

“Does he intend working his way through the whole of the eored, do you think?” the other one asks, so slyly.

“Have you no control over him?” they are enjoying this game too much, and my feelings are too raw to ignore it as I know I should. 

“He is not my dwarf,” I say – and the truth in that is what hurts, the knife that twists inside me every time I see him leave a feast with another.

They turn to each other in mock surprise;  
“Not your dwarf?”  
“That’s not what it looked like,”  
“On the Pelennor field,”  
“On the Hill of Erech,”  
“On the boats of the corsairs,”  
“At the Black Gates,”  
“Every time you are on that horse together......”and they laugh.

But I am in control again now, icy with anger and humiliation, I raise one eyebrow;

“You have overactive imaginations. Your father must be proud of you,” and it seems that even the sons of Elrond are not proof against the disdain learnt so well by Thranduilion.

 

But as they leave, off to ruin someone else’s evening, I down my wine, and look for more, though I know it will not help. Nothing helps this pain, as I have had too many evenings to discover. Evenings here in Rohan, evenings in Minas Tirith, evenings on the road between, evenings all the way back from that camp in Ithilien – and that first evening after the last battle. Every night, it seems, there is another – a man of Gondor, a ranger, a girl, a lady, and most often, one of the Rohirrim. Maybe I am wrong, maybe not every night, maybe not all those I suspect, but it certainly seems so to my aching heart. All those we meet seem ready to go to his bed, and he seems ready to take them – all but me. He does not see me. At least we will be moving off tomorrow, and once we have left Rohan, there will be no more Rohirrim – although I suppose he will find more willing arms easily enough. 

But he still does not see me.

As I drink I discover again the curse of elvish hearing when among mortals – I overhear a conversation among a group of men from both armies;

“Guthric had best be careful, going off with that dwarf – his elven bed-boy is watching – I should not think he wants to end with an arrow in his neck or a knife in his back.”  
“He asked that, did you not hear?”  
“And?”  
“And apparently for all the appearance, elves don’t fuck. That one is, I am told, “a pretty face, and nothing else, no bloody good to anyone”.”  
“And you believe that after that dance? He doesn’t dance like one who does not fuck.”  
“Well, doesn’t fuck dwarves then. I don’t know. But that’s what he said – “no bloody good for bed, no fucking, no fun”.”

Cut inside, I turn away again; that phrasing had too much ring of Gimli for me to doubt who said it. And it hurts. How can he say that? How can he say I am no good – that I don’t ‘fuck’? He has not asked.

I need more wine this night.

I may be unknowing, but I am not stupid. I know what fucking is – at least, I know what animals do, or a male and female who wish for children. I do not know what two males might do – and for all my longing, I cannot really imagine – at least, not really – I do not have the words, I just want to be with him. 

I need more wine this night.

I remember how he sounded, that night in Minas Tirith. I did not listen, I did not stay to listen beyond the moment that told me there was no place for me in my own room. But – that moment. I cannot get the sounds out of my mind. I – I would have him breathe like that, make that sound for me. I cannot stop wondering – what were they doing? Could I learn?

I could, I think, I could learn if he would teach me. I could be with him – even if he does not love me – I love him. I would, even though I am an elf, even without combing. If he would only ask me.

Why does he not wish to teach me? 

I need more wine this night.

I remember how he looked – I remember every detail of his body. I long to touch him, to trace the lines of those inkings, to run my hands over him, feel the scars, kiss him – I do not know what more I want. But as I think about the way he looked, I fear that I am too different – that he does not find me fair. That I am too slight, too smooth, too unmarked by my life – too elven. Is that it? Is that the reason? He simply does not desire me. These men – although they are not dwarves, they are more muscular, more haired, more scarred than I – is that what he likes? Am I not fair in his eyes? Yet – he showed me that cave, he talked to me, he held me – does that mean nothing?

I need more wine this night.

And when we visited that cave, when he held me – my heart was eased, yet something in me longed for more, more closeness, something more – more – I do not know the words. More – passionate. Is that the word? Stronger. I just want him. I would have him teach me. I know elves ‘don’t fuck’ – thank you, Aragorn, for that – but this elf would like to learn. Very much. I would like to learn from this dwarf, who appears to be something of an expert. Maybe, maybe when he held me I should have done something, but I know not what. Maybe – I longed to touch his beard, but if I touched an elf’s hair without being asked, that would be – wrong. Maybe dwarves are different. I have longed to ask him to comb me, but he told me dwarves don’t – it would mean too much. So I dare not ask again, dare not touch his hair or beard. Maybe I should have asked him for something else – but I know not the words. Maybe these things start with kissing – but I do not know. He seems able to talk all these others into his bed – would it be so much to think he might ask me – he knows the words, and much more it seems.

But he does not see me.

I think I need more wine this night.

And now, now Eomer comes over to me, raises his glass and says, jokingly I think;

“Is your dwarf going to leave me any riders still capable of riding, or must he have every one of my men?”

Something inside me snaps;

“He is not my bloody dwarf. I have no control over who he fucks, and it is nothing to me how many of your sodding men he takes to his bed.”

Eomer looks shocked. I am shocked. I have never heard myself swear like that. So bitter.

It seems Gimli has taught me some words, if not the words I long to learn from him.

He reaches his hand out to my shoulder, and suddenly his expression changes – clearly and falsely he says;

“Indeed, my lord prince, I would be grateful if you would teach me something of the stars,” and quickly guides me out to the terrace.

I look at him, confused, and he grins and answers;

“You have spent too long as the only elf among mortals – yours is not the only sharp hearing – and I think those twins are not your closest friends that you would wish them to join our conversation.”

I smile, rueful;

“Indeed, my lord king, it is I who must be grateful. And I am sorry for my discourtesy – but he is not my dwarf, his actions are nothing to me, and yet everyone seems to insist on telling me, as though I cared.”

He meets my eye, and raises his brows in questioning;

“I saw you dance, Legolas, I saw who your eyes followed – and I have heard that tone of voice before. From my sister – speaking of the lord Aragorn, as he was then. I had no words of comfort for her, and I have none for you. To love without hope, is painful. But – it may pass, there may be another, surely? You have so much time – if my sister can love another, as she assures me she does, then........”

I shrug;

“Perhaps. Elves are not as good at love as men, I think.”

“One thing I do know – wine will not help. Even an elf can have too much,” he smiles again, “I would not have Mirkwood and Rivendell at each other’s throats in my hall.”

I cannot help but smile in answer – I know he is right. Wood-elves are not as impervious to wine as we would like.

“At least you have time,” he pauses, and I look my question, “I am a fighting king – I must marry and give my kingdom an heir soon, lest it fall into the kind hand of Gondor. I have no time to look for love.”

I cannot help but ask;

“Is there one? One you love? Or will you wed for duty only?”

He hesitates, then;

“No. No, there is none. I will make the sensible marriage that my lords find me. And will have to be content.”

I nod. But the ways of men are strange to me. How could one do such a thing? How take this longing, burning need for one, and one only, and hide it all the years of one’s life – hide it well enough not to hurt the one you marry? How long for one, yet ‘fuck’ another? 

Perhaps it is better to be an elf.

But as Eomer and I stand out here, watching the stars, in silence, I feel tears on my face as I know that somewhere in Edoras, the one I long for is fucking another, another he does not care for, another he will forget in the morning and never think of again. And he thinks I am merely pretty, no good, not capable of coming to his bed. Because he does not see me as I am, and I do not know how to show him I have changed. I do not know how to show him that I love him – that I long to go to him, to be with him. That I do not only wish to comb with him, but to touch him, to kiss him, to please him – whatever it is that fucking is. That I am scared to – because I do not know if he would forget me in the morning as well, and though I long to be in his bed, I am not sure I could pay the price of losing his friendship if he does not love me.

And I wonder if dwarves are as men, and if he does not have a love, will he marry another for the sake of children? And I wonder why I think it will make any difference to me, if he loves not me, if he sees not me, what does it matter to me what choice he makes? But it does matter, it matters to me that he should be happy – I cannot imagine a time when it would not. 

But right now, right this evening, I just wish I knew how to say to him what it seems everyone else in this hall has seen – that I want him, I want him to want me, I want him to fuck me.

Even though I don’t really know what it means.


	25. Fangorn again

So, finally we are headed home. We have left all the pomp and majesty of the King Elessar, all the friendship of our comrades, all the temptations of the Rohirrim, and all the singing of the sodding elves.

Thank you, Mahal. 

Choruses of them. Singing. All the bloody time. 

Tossing their perfect hair. Singing.

Pacing about solemnly. Singing.

If you ask me, Aragorn is welcome to that lot. Can’t help feeling Lord Elrond is not happy that his daughter has married a mortal. Well, you can see his point. Don’t suppose Mother or Father would be exactly pleased if I were to up and marry some short-lived human. And that’s only a few decades difference – not centuries.

Mortals and immortals don’t mix. 

Mind you, not sure how Lord Elrond manages to ignore his own history to cling to that belief.

Anyway. No more bloody elves, except when they come to Dale to buy our craft. 

Or if Aragorn truly desires mithril gates for his city – and can pay. I am a dwarf. I may have friends, but I know my worth and that of my work.

No more little hobbits. 

Shall miss them. Perhaps it is time to think about a wife and dwarrowlings, Gimli. 

No more Rohirrim.

Shall miss them too. But there will be, as there always are, opportunities. Most of the people of Dale are dark, though, and I find I look more for blonds now.

Time to think about a wife and children, Gimli. Time to grow up and stop playing.

 

No more elves.

No more of this elf.

No more of this beautiful, warm, singing, elf. 

No more time on horseback with him.

No more holding. Touching. Hair in face. 

Time to be a dwarf among dwarves again, Gimli. Time to find one you can braid.

 

Stop. Stop these thoughts now. Enjoy what you have. Talk to the pretty elf – it’ll stop him singing, and it’s not as though you can do anything else to him.

He does not see me that way.

“Seems funny, leaving them all.” Inspired, Gimli, have you forgotten how to be alone with him? But then, I can’t help myself, “so, which of those Galadhrim are your lovers? – I did not see your farewells.” And I know I sound bitter, but I have felt bitter, these last few days, since I overheard a conversation. Those bloody twins, of course, at Edoras;

“Look at him, typical wood-elf – always on heat,” I don’t know which of them – both look alike to me – but I heard the reply,  
“Well, no action from his little dwarf is there – shouldn’t think a Naug could handle something as fiery as that one – no doubt he’ll be rutting with some of Celeborn’s guards tonight.”  
“Wouldn’t surprise me if Mirkwood’s loss is Lorien’s gain – he’s not a bad little fighter but I don’t suppose Thranduil would be sorry to be rid of him,”  
“No, you can see he’s the sort of little tart as will guarantee trouble – bet he goes well in bed though – “  
“needn’t think you are going to be finding out, my beloved twin.”

Really didn’t want to hear any of that. But I did. And I can’t sodding forget it. It’s been going round in my head ever since. Not just the horrible image of brothers in bed – and that is bad enough, not just the term ‘Naug’ – I have heard worse, but all the rest. 

Were Aragorn’s words a lie? A mistake? Is this elf not so innocent – is he a tart – am I a fool not to have tried my luck? 

Has he been on heat all this time? 

Does he not see me?

But, even as I finish speaking, I can feel the shock in this body I am holding, and I curse my unruly tongue,

“My lover – my lovers? Master dwarf – Gimli – what do you think I am?”

I do not answer. I am ashamed. I think again, this is no way to treat a friend.

“I have no lover. For your information, should I have a lover, I would not ride off without looking back. I would not ride off at all.” By the tone of his voice, he is deeply offended – this may be worse than the walking-in-on-elf-combing incident. 

Shit. 

I wish I were not on this horse, that I could walk away. 

But I am. I am stuck here. There are no others to smooth this quarrel over. 

Had better try.

“Sorry. I – I heard – someone” – I come to a stop, but he is laughing – how can he be laughing?

“Oh Gimli, have you been listening to those twins – those Noldor twins – ever ready to spread untrue gossip, ever ready to slander my people?”

I forgot. To me, they are all just bloody elves – but to them – to them, another type of elf is more fun to bait – after all, a mortal enemy is only for a century, but an elf – is forever.

“Did it not,” he continues, “did it not seem odd to you, that they spoke aloud to each other in Westron – they, who can read each other’s thoughts, whose language is Sindarin? – perfect Sindarin, not degraded, accented as mine.” 

And I blush, for no, I had not thought. My jealousy made me a fool.

For I was jealous, even before I heard their words. It was the bloody dancing. Elf-dancing, as I saw in Minas Tirith, that was bad enough. Bad enough to have to watch him with others, even at that odd elven circling and pacing.

But – in Rohan, they dance differently. Wilder. More – more mortal, I suppose. A dance that says clearly, this can finish in bed if you so choose. And while most of the elves stayed aloof, stayed cold, continued their ways – he did not. I suppose he has been away from his own long enough to be used to being the only elf. 

Or perhaps it is this weird Noldor/Silvan thing again – I don’t really understand it. I am not a bloody elf – they are all mad. But – it seems that Noldor are sort of refined and learned – and Silvan are – well – not. 

So the others, lord Elrond’s people just watched from the sidelines, despising, the Lorien lot sort of half danced – but only together, and in their own, slightly elvish way. 

But this elf, my elf, who is not my elf, he – well – he was lit up. I have never seen anything like it. I knew he was fast in battle, and I suppose I had seen him dance before. But this – this was different. I don’t think I was the only one to watch and wonder what he would be like in bed. 

Eomer was certainly looking. Fucking horse-lord. 

Well, I thought he was looking. But – I am a dwarf. I may be over-possessive. And I do know how easily Rohirrim jump into bed.

My elf.

Except – he isn’t.

So when I heard words that confirmed all my fears – I believed. And now I am ashamed. This elf is my friend. 

He does not fuck.

Unfortunately.

“Sorry,” I say again. I cannot think how to apologise enough – but he surprises me. He is laughing, he pats my hand, and almost wriggles back against me – and I am glad I have not left off my armour, for the feeling is so sweet, I am hard again.

“Anyone would think you were jealous,” there is a smile in his voice, and I wonder why those ear-tips are pink again, “but how could one with so many friends among the Rohirrim be jealous?”

Now I don’t know what to say – I had assumed he did not know, could not know. I grunt, meaningless, and hope that is enough. I do not say – I only fuck Rohirrim because I can’t have you. I do not think that would be helpful.

After a few minutes I say, “You are bloody singing again, elf. Stop it,” and he laughs, and says, “No, I’m not. You are imagining it, dwarf. But I can if you want – I am sure Arod will not mind.”

And so, on we go. Arguing, but not really trying to hurt. 

Holding him.

Holding this beautiful warm elf, who has no lover, who wants no lover.

Who is still singing.

Heading home.

Heading to where we will part – forever.

 

But first, it is time to admire this forest he is so intrigued by. 

Yes, elf. It’s lovely. Trees. Thankfully with no eyes. Very nice. You sing to them. Yes. 

Please elf, don’t pay me back for your fear in the caves. I don’t say it, but I am thinking it. 

“Tell me about the trees,” I say instead, “tell me stories of them. Tell me why they matter to you.” 

And I realise he knows exactly what I am thinking, when he takes one hand from Arod’s neck and covers my hand, holding it tightly in reassurance, and begins to talk.

Not singing. Talking. Telling me what it is to be a wood-elf. Telling me more than any sane creature wishes to know about trees. And there are stories mixed in, dreams of what trees can be, what beauty can be.

And sitting behind him, arms holding him, hand held by him, his hair in my face, listening to his voice – now it is my turn to feel protected by him, cared for as I have not for so long, and – I am content.

 

Nearly home now.

Nearly time to say farewell to this elf. Leave him to make his way back through this dark and hideous forest.

This Mirkwood. He may have persuaded me of the beauty of Fangorn – a little – but not this forest. I know there are bloody great dangerous spiders somewhere.

He thinks I don’t realise that he has come out of his way to stay with me. I know he doesn’t realise that if he hadn’t, I would have done the same to stay with him. To make this journey together longer.

Still the same daft elf.

Still singing.

And every night, wherever we are, beside the fire, he looks at me with a question in his eyes. Now I don’t know what he wants. If he were a man, or a woman, or a dwarf, or even a sodding hobbit, I would know what that look means. Not that I have ever had a hobbit – that would be too odd, even for me. But, I would know how to read the face. 

If he were a wood-elf on heat – I would know. But he has told me that was a lie.

He is an elf. Elves don’t.

Elves only fuck if they marry. – Poor elves. –

Arwen must die to marry Aragorn.

Dwarves only marry dwarves.

I could fuck him. I want to fuck him. I have wanted to fuck him for months. Since Caradhras. 

But he wouldn’t want that. 

He has no lover. He wants no lover.

Shit.

I wonder how far it would be ok to go?

Gimli, he is an elf. He doesn’t want to go anywhere. He doesn’t.

He wants something. 

Why doesn’t he ask? He is no shrinking maiden, he is a warrior, a prince – if he wants something, why doesn’t he ask? He is fearless in battle – I have seen him take on odds that would daunt any sane dwarf. Well, so have I – but I have seen him stand with nothing but his flimsy bow, wearing no protective armour, and kill orcs with an arrow held in one hand. I have seen this mad elf scale an oliphaunt to bring it down. I have seen him walk uncaring through the paths of the dead. Surely he cannot be scared now? He is an elf, he knows words, he must – I have seen him send those Rivendell twins away abashed with just a raised eyebrow and a quiet sentence. 

Yet now, now he is all nerves. Expecting me to understand the ways of elves without telling me. I am a dwarf, we are straightforward, we want, we ask. Or, if we think we can’t have something, we do without – as I have been doing, fucking Rohirrim instead of this elf. I don’t understand these bloody longing looks. What the fuck does he want?

He wants something.

I don’t know what.

Suddenly I remember a moment on the black ships – I remember him saying ‘But you will not comb my hair’, and I remember the sadness in his voice. I remember telling him – long ago, it seems, soon after we left Lorien – that braiding means a lot more to dwarves. 

Is that what he wants? He wants me to comb his hair? What would that mean to him? Would it just be friends? – Maybe I could do that, if it matters so much. If I didn’t braid him, it would be alright, wouldn’t it? If that is what he wants?

Come on, Gimli, you have always assumed it’s alright to fuck, so long as you don’t love – how much worse could this be? Really?

Maybe, if I did, not braid but comb – maybe, if I could go partway, he would too. Could I live with just a kiss? Would that be worse than never even tasting him?

I can’t love him.

But – what is it he wants? 

Why can’t he sodding ask?


	26. our last night

It is our last night. We have passed through Fangorn, and the Brown Lands, and skirting the borders of Mirkwood, have come to where I can no longer pretend our roads need not divide. This strange time of journeying together is done. Tomorrow we part, he to his mountain and a hero’s welcome, I to my lord king’s palace.

Since he held me in the cave, when I was so afraid, I have hoped that he would speak. When he held me, I felt – I felt as I cannot remember ever feeling – I felt safe. I felt cared for. Protected. It is a long time since anyone held me in the dark, and told me stories. Since he seemed to understand my fear and care for me then, I hoped. I tried – in Fangorn, I tried to give him the same – but – it is not so very long since he was cared for – perhaps he does not want that. Perhaps, if one is an adored child, one leaves off needing it when one is an adult – I would not know. I thought – if he were truly as unsure of trees as he claims, he would be glad of me – I hoped. Every night of this journey, I have hoped. And every night has been no different to any other. 

When he talked in that cave, as though he truly wished me to understand him; when his jealousy was woken by those poisonous twins, as though he would possess me; when he listened in the forest, as though he desired to understand me – I hoped. Oh I thought that sweet, sweet jealousy would work on him – I thought those twins might actually have done me a favour. He did not like the idea of my having a lover – or lovers – and his anger felt so good to me. I thought, perhaps, he did care – but I could not bring myself to lie. Perhaps if I had been able to, perhaps he would have tried to claim me – but I could not. I have never yet lied to him, I will not – that is not who I am. Besides, I do not think I could carry off the pretence of being so experienced as to have several lovers.

But still, despite all these things, he does nothing. I thought he would lead – I thought, because he knows where I only yearn, I thought he would show me the way. 

I fear – I fear he does not want me. I do not know what to do, how to say that he has only to ask – I am so afraid to lose what I have. Yet, beyond tomorrow – I have nothing.

I try to think – how would I approach an elf – but I would not need to – if I were close enough to an elf to journey like this, just two, we would already be comb-mates – and that would be all I could imagine or need. 

I do not know how to ask. I do not know what to ask.

Why is this so difficult? I have not been used to thinking myself a coward, I have been used to being brave, to hiding my fear, but this – I cannot fight this. I do not know how to ask for love. I do not know how to love – I have never learnt this.

And even though he does not want love from me, I am still more afraid than I have ever been. I am afraid he will not want anything from me – for he has not asked.

Why does he make me ask him? Why cannot he see?

I do not know how to ask because I do not know what it is I want, but – but I want. I want something – something he can give. If he will not offer, then I must ask. 

I do not know how to ask.

But – I cannot leave things as they are. I find I cannot return to my forest, to my life, with such an unanswered question. Elves are not made so.

Knowing that even should we meet again, (and that is by no means certain,) all will be different, I finally take my courage in both hands. I think, perhaps I can start by asking for what I know. Perhaps at least I can gain that comfort. The fire is dying down now, and as he smokes, I unbind my hair. Then with shaking hands, I kneel in front of him as he sits on a tree stump, facing the fire, my back to him.

“Gimli,” I say, “Elvellon, this is our last evening of fellowship. If we have been friends, I would ask one last memory. Please, I do not ask you to braid, but will you comb my hair?”

I hear him tap out his pipe, and know he is using the time to think. At last he answers, “Aye.” He takes my comb and at last I feel the touch of his hands in my hair. I kneel still, feeling his rough hands, so gentle as he separates the strands, knowing the strength in them is enough that I am vulnerable before him. My heart is pounding, but I ignore it, intent only on the sensations he creates, for I know these are memories I must live on for an eternity. 

Gentle and patient as he is, he is a dwarf. He combs only for a purpose, only to tidy the wayward strands. He feels no pleasure in this, he knows not what I feel, he will not ask me to comb him, this which is so much to me, is just a task to him. And so it is finally done. He reaches down and places the comb in my hand. And then, still leaning forward, strokes my ears, and I feel his breath on one as he speaks, his voice thicker than is usual;

“What of me, Legolas, what memory will you give me?”

I turn, his hands still on me, and greatly daring, look into his eyes; “any you desire.” Then I flush, and look down, “but I know not what that would be.”

I cannot make myself say – fuck me. I cannot say – take me to bed as you took all those others. I cannot say – kiss me as I saw you kiss them, hold me as I saw you hold them.

I cannot.

I am an elf, yet I am without words.

I can only hope he will understand.

One hand slips from my ears, to hold my head, and softly he answers, “this is what I would have from you,” as his mouth descends on mine. But he is still stroking at my ear-tip. I gasp, and suddenly it is no gentle kiss, but strong and demanding, his tongue in my mouth, his hands pulling me to him even as I reach out to hold him, comb forgotten. My eyes shut, I cling to him, shuddering, wondering what this feeling is, moaning into his mouth as he tastes me. Sensations, feelings, needs cascade through me, that I have no words for. I am lost, all I know is him, and it is beyond anything I have dreamed.

After a time, I know not how long, but to me it is all too short, he pulls back. My head drops to rest on his shoulder and as he traces a finger, so gentle, down my cheek, I realise that he too is breathing hard as I have so often heard him breathe in battle,

“Master elf, if this is so much,” he hesitates, “I am almost afraid to ask for more.”

But I find I want more, more of this feeling, more moments where he surrounds me; whatever more there is, I want it. And at last, I know exactly why all those others are so eager to go to his bed.

“I know not what more there is,” I answer, “even after all this time among men. Yet whatever you ask I will give, whatever you teach I will learn,” and suspecting my voice reveals to one so practised, both my desire and my ignorance, I find I can at last say, “please, Gimli, teach me.”

Gently he runs his finger across my lips, and I cannot help but lick at him – he groans, and for a moment I think I have done something wrong, but then his mouth is on my ear and he says, again in that new, thick voice;

“Is this what elves like? Tell me, Legolas, what do you like, what would you have from me?” but I cannot answer, even if I knew, because as he stops speaking he begins to kiss and lick at my ear-tip – and I do not know how a dwarf can know, but it seems that this is what elves like. I hear my voice again, whimpering with need, and I am clinging to him as though I will never let go while he has one hand buried in my hair, holding me within his arm, and the other is still tracing my face. Between whimpers I am licking at his hand, and sucking on his fingers as they touch my mouth, and all the while he is caressing my ear-tip with his mouth – and I did not know anything could feel so. There is nothing in my world but this, and I do not even know who I am anymore. 

“Saes, saes,” I am begging, and somehow I remember Sindarin is no good and change to; “please, please,” although I do not know what I am pleading for.

But it seems that he does, and he shifts us so that his hand can leave my face and travel down my body, stroking as he goes, leaving a burning trail of flames it seems to me. And his mouth leaves my ear, and works down my neck, not so gentle now, biting, sucking, tongue comforting where the teeth graze, but still his other arm is holding me and his hand is in my hair, oh his hand in my hair, gripping me, safe. 

My Westron is gone, my Sindarin is gone, I have no words left, only desperate needy cries – and I still know not what I need. But he does, and his hand has reached my lacings, and somehow he can undo them with one hand, and he is touching me, touching me where I have never been touched, where I knew not that I wanted him. But oh, I do, and it feels good. I have never felt this before, in all my longing for him I did not feel hard like this, I did not know. 

I am falling, falling into him, there is nothing left in my world but him, he is holding me, he is surrounding me, he is everything, and I am calling his name, needing him, terrified he will stop, and I am falling screaming his name clinging to him, clutching at him, arching myself against him.

And as I come down, back to myself, I am shaking and he holds me, gently, kindly, almost lovingly now, he kisses my face, and both his arms are round me and I think this is worth whatever price I may pay later – for I am an elf. There will be a price for this.

“Gimli,” I say, hesitantly, “Gimli, what do.......”I know not how to ask – what do you want, how can I please you? I run my hands down from his shoulders, feeling the strength in his arms, and kiss him back. This time, my tongue is in his mouth, feeling his sharp teeth, tasting him, and it is no less overpowering.

He is still breathing hard, and one of his hands slips between us, and as I let my hand run down his arm I find he is unlacing himself, and I am helping, and touching him as he touched me, and oh the feeling of, yes, power, when he groans into me as I kiss him. Then both his hands are in my hair again, and when we pull apart to breathe, he is pushing my head down towards where I am holding him and he gasps out, still in this new, darker, voice;

“Elf, your mouth.......”, and when I realise what he is asking for, somewhere deep inside I am shocked – I had not known of this, but I want to please him – and I think how good his fingers felt in my mouth, how good that taste was, and I lean down and begin to lick and suck at him. 

And this taste is better, this is so good, so strong, and his hands in my hair holding me, I hear myself moaning with the pleasure of it, and his hips are thrusting towards me and I feel myself becoming hard again from pleasing him. And at last – at last he is breathing as I heard him breathe before, but this time, this time for me. He is clutching at my hair, and the sensation is so much, I am his, and he groans again, and I am using my hand as well as my mouth, and I am desperate for more, I can’t get enough, and he is moving faster, and then my mouth is filled and I am swallowing, gulping, licking as he says my name just once.

“Legolas,” and I think I have never heard my name sound so beautiful, not when any other said it, not as it sounds in his mouth, not as it sounds at this moment. 

And now, again, I know not what to do next, but I trust him, and he meets my eyes, and says;

“We would be more comfortable if your bedroll was here by mine, do you not think?”

And I smile, and we rearrange our camp. Hesitatingly, nervously, I begin to remove my clothes – but he has no such reservations, and strips with speed – and his body takes my breath away again. This time, I need not look away, this time, I can stare as though I would learn every inch of him. He is indeed beautiful, muscled more evenly from his axe-work than I would have thought, less – less furry than I had been told dwarves are, hairy, yes, but not unpleasingly – oh not unpleasingly at all. And those inkings – I cannot explain why they intrigue me so, but I cannot take my eyes off – well, all of him. I only realise I am not moving when he turns back from piling his clothes, and raising his eyebrows says;

“Elf – Legolas – do you not wish to - ?”

I flush, and manage to answer, in a voice I barely recognise, “no, yes – I – I do wish to – I was – distracted,” and admit, “you are beautiful – I – I fear you will find me – ,” and the only word I can find, for some reason, is, “pale.”

He laughs, “oh, daft bloody elf. You must know you are lovely –,” no, I think, how would I, when none has ever said so before, - “and I have spent enough time at your side to expect your skin to be paler than I, for all your years in trees and mine in caves. Take your clothes off, and come here – for I think you do want to, don’t you?”

Of course, of course I do. And looking at his eyes as he stares at me, I strip, and find that perhaps I am lovely to him – and no-one else has ever mattered. Then he pulls me down to lie with him, and finally I am at last able to trace his inkings, and find that they feel and taste the same as the rest of his body. But I am not disappointed.

 

 

And now, I lie, curled safe in his arms, head on his chest, hand, greatly daring, stroking through the unbraided part of his beard. He sleeps, and I dread his waking for then this will be over. I know it means nothing to him, for even as he taught me, I understood that there was no great wonder in this to him. That those hands have touched many others – and I did not ask who, for I do not want more names or more images to haunt me. That his mouth, his tongue, his lips were skilled from practice, not from longing. That when he moved me, held me, caressed me and pleased me in ways I had never guessed at, it was nothing new to him – except the triumph I could see in his eyes at wringing those words of need from an elf. That when he showed me how to please him (and please him I did, in every way he asked), he knew so well what he desired because there was novelty only in my inexperience. He knew, he knew how our bodies could fit together, how to sit me astride him that he could lie back and enjoy my hands, how to lie atop me and thrust against me that I would cling and whimper in pleasure and need. 

And I understood, I understood that he wanted only pleasure, that I may be lovely, but so are many others. That this night, which has been all to me, was just fucking to him. But, I think, at least now I know, now I know what I have desired so long, now I know what those others gave him. 

So I kept the words that I would speak in my heart. I did not dare unbraid his hair. I did not ask that he keep me with him. I did not give him that triumph. I kept some pride.

But now as he sleeps, I let myself imagine how it would feel had I not, and had he been able to return my love. If this were truly a new beginning. If I could stay in his arms forever. I do not allow myself to consider where we could go, or how live, - or that this would never be forever, for he is mortal. I will not think of that. This is my time. This will be my only time – whatever other elves can do, Noldor or Galadhrim – I am Silvan, I can love but once, I can only desire like this where there is love. It is done. And I know that when he is gone, I will begin to fade. But I will not think of that. Now I will feel love, and safety, even if it be illusion. 

Now, while he sleeps, I can say the words I have longed to say for so many months. I can speak my love to him – for he is asleep, and anyway, he knows not the Sindarin I use. I will say these words, for I know this is the only chance I will ever have. I will make these vows, though they mean nothing to him – I have made them already in my heart and with my body, what are some words? – If I wish to live in this sweet illusion a while longer – no-one is harmed by it but me.

I will not see that the sun has risen. I will not hear the birds sing. I will not notice my faithful Arod return, ready to continue our journey. I will not wake him, and while this dwarf sleeps his mortal sleep, I can pretend this night does not end.

 

 

All too soon, he stirs and shifts under me. His hand moves and strokes through my hair, sending shivers through me again as I close my eyes and burrow into him, trying to store these feelings, this scent, for I know it must last forever. He tilts my head up, and meets my eyes;

“You have let me sleep too long, master elf. The sun is low in the sky,” he smiles, “I do not think it worth starting our journey today. We will have to spend another night here.”

I smile, and as I feel myself falling into this seemingly unending longing, needing, pleasure, I wish I could say those words of love to him – but I dare not. If he wanted to hear them, I would know. He would speak of love if he felt it – no dwarf would wish for any possession and not take it, not when it so clearly was within his grasp. I will not lose what I have gained by asking for what I cannot have.

And as I trace my way down his body with mouth and hands, he speaks again;

“Teach you, you said – elf there is, I think, nothing I can teach you. In all your many years of practice, you have become as skilled in bed as in battle,” and I hear the smile in his voice, and know he means it as praise. But I am glad that without him seeing I can shut my eyes to keep these tears from falling – that he loved me not, I knew, that he thought I cared not, that this means nothing to me – I did not realise. But there will be time enough for tears, time enough when he is gone, year upon year for regrets and longings – this is my time for love, and even if he knows it not – I will give him all the love I have, all the pleasure I can – do not forget me, I think, do not forget your elf, when you are gone back to your mountain. 

And I wonder if I can tire him enough to sleep late again, to buy me another day and night of this sweet illusion?

 

 

But next morning, he does wake early. And as he tidies himself and his belongings, I know that he longs for his home and family, and his people.

“Would that we could stay longer,” he says, kindly, I think, “yet we cannot linger here in a forest forever.”

I could, I think. I am a wood-elf. And anyway, I would linger anywhere forever to be with you. But I will not say what he would not hear. I gather my possessions, and set myself to rights. Near the ashes of our fire, I find my comb; so long carried, but now cracked in two. For a moment, I hold it in my hand, wondering which of us, unnoticing, broke this with his weight. 

“Any dwarf would tell you that would mend easy,” he says.

“And any elf, would tell you that you might hide the break, but it would still be there,” I answer softly.

This he ignores; “come, Legolas, I will put in your braids this one time. I have watched you often enough, I know how they go.” And he does. Gently. And I think this is what I dreamed of for so long, yet now it breaks my heart, for he indeed rebraids me exactly as I was. As though he will not see I am changed.

 

It is little distance to the road, and there we must part. He to walk on to Laketown, and thence to his mountain, I towards my lord king’s palace within the forest. Our words of parting are casual, meaningless almost. I turn Arod, and ride away. I will not look back. I would see nothing if I did, for I am blinded by the tears I can now let fall.


	27. joy in the mountain

“I wish you joy of your mountain. Farewell, master dwarf,” and he rides away. Rides away with the same braids he has always worn in his hair.

What the fuck were you thinking, Gimli? 

You waited all this while, and now. Now, he rides off, not looking back I notice. Rides away as though it matters not who braided him.

So much for “should I have a lover, I would not ride off without looking back. I would not ride off at all.”

That was obviously not love. That was just fun. I am not his lover. He does not care. 

Fuck.

He did not ask for different braids.

Fuck.

He did not ask to braid you. 

Fuck.

Now, you are once more ‘master dwarf’. Not Elvellon. Not Gimli. Not Gimli-mellon. Not Gimli-nin, not Gimli-melethron-nin – whatever the fuck that meant – don’t know, but it sounded nice, although I think right then anything would have sounded pretty good. Certainly you are not “oh Gimli, please Gimli, yes oh yes oh yes Gimli”. Not this morning.

Fucked that up, didn’t you?

Bad choice of word. Fucking being the one thing you didn’t do. Didn’t dare. 

Elves don’t.

Mind you, I didn’t know elves were quite so keen on other things. Don’t think elf knew either. All those centuries – you’d think he’d have had a few good teachers. Perhaps not. 

Didn’t stop him bloody singing.

You wouldn’t think it was possible to sing at the same time. Not with his mouth full.

Hmmm.

Forget it, Gimli. Just sodding forget it. 

Time to go home.

Forget the bloody elf.

He has forgotten you.

 

 

Home for Durin’s Day. 

So many changes. So many dead. So many older, more changed than they should be. 

Mother, Father – still as ever. No change there. Home. Safe. Both of them safe. 

Good to be back with them. Good to be someone’s son again.

A new king. Who wishes to hear all. Maybe not quite all, I think. Bit of editing required.

But he seems pleased with my account. Pleased to think of a colony in Aglarond. Pleased to think that better relations may be possible with the elves of Mirkwood. Don’t think I’ll mention that I may have screwed that up at the last minute. 

And I find I have to defend that daft elf to my father when he hears that part of the story. 

“Of course he is my friend,” I say, thinking ‘you do not know half of it’, “he has saved my life over and over. As I have his. There were times when I would have been lost without him – lost in a world of men.”

Grudgingly, Father agrees, that perhaps even arrogant pointy-eared bastard princes have their uses, “but,” he adds, “I don’t see why that means he is your friend. Ally in times of need, yes, even Thorin could see that, but no more, Gimli, no more.”

“Yes, more, Father,” I say, “he is my friend. When I go to Minas Tirith, or to Aglarond, I would hope to see him again. He may be there – or Ithilien is not so very far away.” So I keep telling myself. I will see him again. Surely.

Father is not convinced. He grunts, and blows smoke at me, “You may see him again – and you may be sorry. That one is proud. If there is no need, you will not be his friend. Just a dwarf. Useful perhaps, but that is all. I remember his words when he looked on my picture of your face and that of your mother – ”

“What picture?” I ask – I don’t know what he means,

“What picture? – the picture of each of you I always carry – my locket – you know what picture, boy,” he is always angry if you seem foolish, my Father is not patient – but I still don’t understand what he means,

“When did he see that – what are you talking about?” and as I swallow the words ‘you silly old fool’, I realise this is the closest we have come to an argument since I was – well – since before I came of age. 

He looks at me as though I am the fool – “He took it from me when he and his troop imprisoned us in their bloody forest – I must have told you this over and over – and he – well, perhaps the words are best not repeated – but he insulted your mother’s beauty and you.”

And, yes, I do half-remember the story – but I had stopped connecting that unnamed arrogant elf with my daft singing companion. He sees I understand, and continues;

“ – that elf is a fool, like his father. He cannot see beauty, or anything but use to value in a dwarf. Son, I speak not to hurt you, but to warn you. Never trust an elf to consider you as equal. Never trust an elf.”

And he doesn’t know how his words hurt me. I want to trust this elf. I want to believe he saw my worth.

But I wonder if Father is right.

Is that daft singing elf I spent so much time happy with the true Legolas, or is the arrogant prince that Father remembers – and, oh fuck, that I remember from early on – from before Khazad-dum, before he needed me? Is that the true Legolas? Was all the rest, not a lie, I will not say that, but – just a way to get through the dark?

Is he really just his father’s son?

Occurs to me, that I don’t think elf ever mentioned his father. Well, I suppose it would not have been an easy conversation – not with his father having imprisoned mine – but still, you’d think he would have shown concern once or twice. But – even when we heard what had been happening in his wood – he did not ask. Did not send any kind of message. Did not seem particularly pleased that war had been won. Not, I think, a happy family. Bit of a rift perhaps? 

Or is that just what I want to think?

Why did I never ask?

Why does it matter now? – Father is right, I will most likely never see him again.

Shit. Don’t like that thought.

 

Winter in the mountain.

All as it should be. All as I longed for at times.

Busy. Work. Plans.

Plans for gates for Minas Tirith – that order has come in.

Plans for the caves of Aglarond.

Plans for who will come there with me.

Crafting. Forgework. 

Plans for jewellery that will never be worn.

Mending a comb.

But the break still there underneath. The break becoming part of the design, showing a new beauty.

Making a new comb. From the most precious metal I have. The mithril I ‘found’ in Khazad-dum. Engraved. A pattern of leaves and stars.

Fuck.

Gimli, what are you doing?

This is a time for new plans. Father has been making comments about my age, his age, his age when I was born. Mother is keen to remind me of all the dwarrowdams who are not yet wed – which ones have expressed interest in travelling. They are keen to remind me I am, apparently, a hero of Middle Earth – keen not only for their own pride, but to point out that I am of interest. Desirable not just to dwarrowdams, but to their parents.

Think. Think of the future. Think of marriage. Think of family, dwarrowlings. Think of your life the way you know it must be.

Think about courting. 

Every night I tell myself – think about courting. Think of finding the One you can be with, the One you will have a family with. 

But – every night, I fail. Every night, I do not wish to go out, to go drinking, to go meeting others. Oh, I do – sometimes. I have cousins, friends enough to be glad to see, to drink with.

But I braided him. How can I hope to love another, to marry? – I braided him.

And I fall into bed alone. And the memory comes back – and I know I should be thinking of someone else, anyone else, but I can’t. 

Don’t think about a beautiful elf, sighing, moaning, panting, clinging, needing you. Kissing you. Coming in your arms, convulsing against you. Licking you, taking you in his mouth. Begging you for more. Legs and arms wrapping round you. Calling your name. Those sapphire eyes looking up at you. Don’t think about the need in them. Don’t think about the trust, the happiness. Don’t think about the whimpers and words falling from his mouth. Don’t think about him loving you.

It wasn’t love.

Fuck. 

If it was love, he would never have ridden away. He told you this.

If it was love, he would have spoken – no elf can be silent about their feelings. You know this.

Don’t think of his hair. The feel of it. Holding it to move his head. Running your hands through it. Combing it. The way he sat. The tremors going through him. 

Braiding it. I never knew how that would feel. Braiding as though he were mine. Remembering the pattern of his braids. 

Fuck. 

If it was love, he would have asked for different braids. He would have known he was changed. 

He would have known I was changed.

Changed?

Fuck. 

 

Winter draws on towards spring. 

Plans continue.

Nearly time to depart.

Not sorry to go. This mountain may be home, but I think I have outgrown it. I want to travel again.

Even in the heart of the forge, even in the workshop, it is too quiet here. All the time, just out of earshot, I am straining to hear it. Worrying when I don’t.

It’s taken me a while to realise what’s missing.

No elf singing.

Fuck.

Be glad to get away from my parents’ questioning eyes. Oh, I love them. I shall miss them. But they know me too well. They know there is something I am not telling them. 

They must know I am not out drinking and courting as I should be. They must know I am lying alone each night.

They have stopped their hints. I just hope I can leave before they ask questions I don’t have the answers to.

 

 

I am packing things I wish to take from the workshop, when Mother speaks to me. She is pretending to work on her latest filigree, but I know she is not. I thought she was just keeping an eye that I did not ‘accidentally’ ‘borrow’ any of her beloved tools. But no, she has another purpose.

“Some of your best work there,” she says, so quietly I do not realise her meaning at first, “who is it for?”

Shit. The comb. Not a gift for any dwarf.

Never could get much past either of them.

I wonder how much she has seen. How much she has understood from the patterning.

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to have this conversation.

Moments like this, you wish for siblings to hide behind. 

I haven’t answered. So she says;

“Are you ever going to tell us? We are your parents, Gimli. We are not quite such fools as you think.”

Shit.

Can’t think of an answer that will work. Don’t want to argue, not so close to leaving. 

“Please, don’t ask me, Mother.”

She sighs; “I won’t ask then,” pause. Thank Mahal, I think. Then, “but Gimli, be careful.”

Careful? What does she think? 

“Sometimes dwarves can be too secret. Sometimes we do not make our hearts clear. If you don’t ask, you won’t be rejected, but you won’t be accepted either.”

Shit.

I asked, Mother, I think. I braided him. He wanted nothing from me.

Fuck.

I really don’t want to have this conversation. I grunt, and pretend I need to pack something else.

 

So, next evening, it is Father who tries. He sits beside the fire, carefully not meeting my eyes, as we both smoke in silence – one of the best times of the day. Until he says;

“Something happened to you while you were away.”

“A lot.” I block.

“Someone happened.”

Shit.

“We are not stupid, Gimli. We know you.”

Evidently.

“Yet, you don’t tell us. You haven’t yet changed your braids.”

No, well, I think. It’s complicated. Still hiding in my pipe.

“Not a dwarf, I think.”

I blush. And am thankful my beard hides most of it.

“I always knew you were wild when you went to Dale. We always knew you were.........adventurous here, under the mountain,” he wishes to meet my eyes no more than I wish to meet his, “but, Gimli, if this is your One, you must speak. You have to try. Do not be alone if you can have this man – woman – hobbit? – I do not ask.”

Oh, Father, if only it were a man, or woman, or hobbit. But an elf? That would break your heart. This elf – son of your captor – I have heard you express your opinion of my travelling companion. I cannot tell you. What would be the point, when this elf made it so clear that it was nothing to him?

“I do not ask who this is, what race, why he – she – is not here with you. Why you are not speaking to her – his – parents. But – we will listen if you can tell us.”

He waits.

“Gimli, whatever, whoever – we will listen.”

I wonder if he really could listen if I told him. But what good would it do? 

“Gimli – even,” he pauses, this is hard for him to say, “even if this is one of Lord Elrond’s people – many of them were good, and fair, and we would not blame you should it be hopeless longing. It happens. Indeed, Lord Elrond is half-elven – those of his household – it may not be hopeless – you are no wandering tinker,” he stops again, he does not know what else to suggest. 

And I almost think I could speak. I love my Father, I have always loved and trusted both my parents. But.

This elf?

Of all possible. Not just male.

Not just not-a-dwarf.

Not just an elf.

This elf.

Son of Thranduil. 

My Father’s captor.

I can’t do it to my Father. Not with things how they are.

The elf rode away.

He did not care.

It was nothing to him.

No dwarf could be loved by an elf. 

My father speaks again;  
“Gimli, if nothing else, be true to yourself. Change your braids if it is with you as we think. Do not lie to the world in this. If nothing comes of it, you may still find happiness in other things. We dwarves are not made just for love, we have other work in us. But you must be whole, you must know yourself.”

And that is all he says. 

He is right. My parents know me better than I like. 

This is love.

For an elf.

An elf who does not care.

Shit.

He can’t care, Gimli. An elf who cared would have fucked. Would have considered us married. 

Maybe Aragorn really doesn’t know as much as he thinks.

Fucked. Oh if only we had.

I know I would keep him. Whatever my parents thought, I would. 

But he didn’t want that. He rode away.

And I didn’t stop him.

You fool, Gimli. Playing. He offered anything I asked, and all I took was easy fun. His mouth, his hands, his thighs. Nothing more.

Why didn’t I fuck him? Why? Why didn’t I claim him when I had the chance?

Because he didn’t ask. He didn’t want that. 

I made it clear that was what I wanted, I turned him ready for it – but he didn’t ask. I have never yet even persuaded – I have never needed to – I will not take without being welcomed. 

Over and over, I showed what I desired – he did not want it. He did not want me to fuck him.

He did not wish to braid me.

He did not want love.

No elf could stay silent about their feelings – if he loved you, he would have said it. Sung it probably.

He doesn’t care Gimli. Forget him.

He doesn’t care that it felt so bloody right when he curled up to you, when he thought you were still asleep, when he lay in your arms. Whatever those words he was whispering, in his own bloody gibberish, they didn’t mean anything to him. None of it meant anything.

All those bloody longing looks – none of it meant anything. He just wanted a dwarf to pleasure him. Just a wood-elf on heat. He just wanted to find out if all the things they say of dwarves are true – well, I hope he’s happy now he knows. Even if I didn’t fuck him, he knows. Dwarves – well, this dwarf – are as well-endowed, attentive to detail, and long-lasting as they say. 

Not that elves are exactly under-achieving.

Not that elf.

Not my elf. – But that is just it. He is not my sodding elf, and he never was. And the knife twists in my heart again.

None of it meant anything to him.

None of it.

And, unexpectedly, I find it meant so much to me, I still cannot want another. I am fighting not to be angry all the time that he is not here. I want him. I miss him.

Every night. I miss him. I think about him, and him only. And I – I want him, I want his mouth on me, I want his hands, I want to hear his sweet cries. I want to fuck him. 

But – even if I can’t – I want him here.

Here in my arms. 

Even if all he wants is for me to comb his hair.

Mahal help me, I love him.

You fool. You didn’t even try to say any of it.

The nearest you came was some gasped out words in Khuzdul – as if that was going to be any good. Bloody elf couldn’t understand that, even if he wanted to.

I tried. I braided him. That meant so much – he understood but did not want what I offered. He knew that braiding means to dwarves what fucking does to elves. And he let me braid him, but did not touch my hair, did not ask for braids to show love. 

Didn’t fuck either.

He didn’t care.

He’ll be singing and combing with some bloody group of elves by now. He won’t remember you.

Too late now.

Shit.

And now at last, I understand the words of my Lady, I understand what the ‘living gold and loving sapphires’ were that she offered me – but he is not hers to give. Even now, I would not have him gifted me in return for my honour – that is not the love I would have. Better this emptiness than that. I am a dwarf. I will not give up my pride for any, not even my One, whatever it cost me.

Besides, it is too late now.

Oh, Legolas. Really? Never again?

But I have to face the thought, that if I ever do see him again, I will no doubt be old, changed, sterner, harder, greyer, no longer able to please him – while he will be eternally young, eternally fair. What good could I ever be to him?

No wonder he never saw me as a lover.

I had that one time, one chance. And I wasted it.

Perhaps better this way, I think, perhaps better not to watch love die, not to see his eyes wander as I age. 

Shit.

I love him.

But he could never feel this for me.

 

I will be true to myself, and change my braids. I will use this mended comb, I will make it mine, as I should have claimed its owner. None will ask who has caused me to change my braids, that is not the dwarven way.

I will go, as I have planned, to make these gates, and take up my title as Lord of Aglarond. I will make my life worthwhile. 

But I will take this finely crafted mithril comb with me.

Just in case.


	28. homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my guess at how the kili/tauriel story will end mentioned.

For all the talk of change in Mirkwood, for all the victory in the south, for all the new peace, and the accord with Lorien, for all this, it seems to me that my lord king’s palace is still the same. As is my place in it. And my greeting. I am, it seems, late. And have been foolishly wasting my time on other things, rather than returning to where I might have been of some slight use. The rebuke from my king, I was expecting – I have been almost a year upon an errand which was to take a matter of months, and missed a war in which this kingdom was fighting for its survival. But there is still a small elfling inside, who foolishly hoped for some word of praise, or at least welcome, from his Ada. It does not come, as it never did, and I wonder that I am still surprised.

But again, I find I am thinking of a locket. Wondering how it feels to have a father so proud he carries your picture.

As I visit my Arod, ensuring his comfort and welcome at least, I find myself hoping that Gimli, son of Gloin, has found more warmth in the stony halls of his mountain than I have here. Doubtless he has. Adored child, remember? Certainly, I think, he could not have found less.

How do you resume a life that has been left? How continue with what used to be enough, having tasted more? How pick up the threads of a fading tapestry, fated to lie unseen by he it is made for? The song is almost gone from my heart, I do not know how to find it again, I do not know how to carry on.

I do not know. But I try. I ride out, I kill spiders, I hunt, I sing, I dance, I comb, I walk these forest paths. But there is no pleasure in hunting without his appetite to feed. No pleasure in singing without his complaints of ‘elven foolishness’. No pleasure in dancing without his eyes on me, impatient as they always were. No pleasure in riding, for Arod and I feel unbalanced alone together. No pleasure in tales, in talking without a dwarf to argue with, to tease and be teased by. No pleasure in silence without the smell of pipe-smoke.

No pleasure in combing without his hands, only some slight relief from this weariness which fills me. – Indeed, I have first to find a new comb, avoiding the questions, for my own is lost, broken, left in the ashes of our last fire.

I find I have no peace among my beloved trees. After all these ages my heart is not content here in my forest – and I think of the words of the lady of Lorien. It is not the sea-longing that disturbs my peace, it is the longing for my love, my love who cares not for me. I wonder if she was wrong – or did she mean to warn me? Had I turned away from the sea-road, had I returned to Edoras with Théoden rather than take the Paths of the Dead – would I now not love him so? What else would have changed? Would I have ridden into battle with Merry – would Eowyn have had to face the Witch-King alone? But these are foolish thoughts – I did what I did. I had no choice – I knew then I could not turn away from him. I never could until he bid me farewell. And for all this pain, I would not be without the memories of him.

And so I am left with one thing. The fierce, unthinking joy of killing. Day, after day, I join those who hunt down the spiders. This, at least, is something I can do, something for which I need him not. But even this is not free of sadness. I ask where are my troop – what became of those of my watch who were left behind when I was sent to confess our failure? And I learn. There are but seven left. Seven. Of some thirty hunters, none of whom have passed west, all of whom should still be alive.

But they were blamed for my failure. Perhaps they were blamed for my defection. They were always in the thickest fighting, at his orders. And now, finally, for this, I can blame the king, not Ada. This was not right, or just, or kingly. 

Yet, as he intended, I also blame myself. Had I returned, they might be alive. I have not the courage to seek out those seven. I have not the courage to do anything much beyond keep existing. I think again how different are the Noldor, how different the peredhel – how could Arwen have borne this pain for so many years?

Then I remember – Arwen’s love was returned.

I find I think of Tauriel, and I wish I could talk to her again. I wish I could say now that I am sorry. Now I understand how she could have loved that dwarf. Now I have learnt how she could have chosen to give her life for his, how she felt for him. Now I wish I had not said so that he was ugly, that he was too short, too mortal, too – whatever else I said. I miss my friend now that I realise just how similar we were – and I wonder if beyond death she has found peace, and if they will ever be reunited, or if death is as divided as we are told.

Yet – even as I think this, I cannot help but remember the way her dwarf looked at her, spoke to her. As though she was something special, something precious, something unattainable. I think, my dwarf – who is not my dwarf, who was never and will never be my dwarf – he never looked at me like that. Her – Kili? – looked more lovingly at her when she imprisoned him, than Gimli ever looked at me when I – I did everything he asked. 

I tell myself that is the difference between a young dwarf, who has not met an elf before, who has known nothing of love or fucking, and a seasoned warrior, who has spent months with an elf, visited elves, and certainly knows all there is to know of fucking. But – I fear that it is not just that. Fear that I made it only too clear that I am not special, not precious – and I certainly was only too attainable. 

Legolas, stop, I think – you did nothing wrong. You acted according to your nature, as did Tauriel, as did Kili – and as did Gimli. Would you really rather you had acted the prince – and had no memory of those kisses? 

Look at your Ada – does his pride keep him warm at nights? Even if he never feels lonely – is that really what you would choose?

No. I am not Ada. I know that – and I can never be him, never have his strengths – so why choose to have his weakness? I may have lost some pride, I may have given so much for so little – yet, I answered my questions – I found out what I longed for, and even if I cannot have it in truth, I can have it in memory. And, I remind myself, I did not lose all my pride, I did not beg him to love me, I did not lay my foolish heart at his feet. The memory is not sullied by his scorn or rejection.

For more and more I find I retreat into reverie. And in this too I am changed – no longer the elf I was. I cannot reverie in company – I am too aware of my own reactions to my memories. Over and over I play the memories of him. Memories of battles, of walking, of time on boats, time in caves, in mines, in forests. Memories of talking. Of watching him fight. But most of all, when I am combing alone, memories of his hands on my hair, of him combing me. Memories of that golden time – of lying in his arms. 

Memories of kissing him, of him kissing me, holding me. Memories of stroking him, tasting him. The strength in his hands as he held me, moved me where he wanted me, as he held my hair to guide my head. The way he touched me, the way I felt as I clung to him, falling, calling out his name. The way he groaned and said my name.

Memories of wrapping myself around him, of looking up into his eyes, of his body pushing against me. Of him biting at my neck and ears, caressing me, pleasing me, kissing down my spine while he rode me, his heat between my thighs. Of touching him, of tracing my hands over him as he lay back under me, of sitting astride him and watching his face as my hands brought him pleasure.

Memories of his eyes, his voice saying I was lovely, that I pleased him. Memories of kisses, hard, demanding, wanting kisses, exploring, passionate kisses, gentle, kind – oh almost loving, I could believe they were loving kisses. 

But – they weren’t loving. His weren’t.

Mine were.

Memories of loving him.

How, for those sweet hours, I felt more alive, more loved than I have ever felt. How I knew what I was made for. Even though I knew, somewhere inside, that I lied to myself, that it was nothing to him. It was not love, not to him. 

I remember his hands in my hair, combing me, braiding me – and that hurts worst of all. He did not change my braids, he knew what we had done and still he would not see how it is for me. He did not offer me his comb, did not let me touch his hair, did not ask me to braid him.

It was not love, not to him.

But I wonder, does he think of me at all? When he is alone, does he ever think of me, as I think of him? Does he ever imagine his hand is mine, as I touch myself and long for him?

Does he ever look for someone who might remind him of me – for I am sure he will be fucking someone different whenever he has the opportunity? 

Does he ever miss our friendship? – There was friendship, I know there was. He was my friend, it was not just being the only two who were not men for so long. It was real, that dwarf who rode with me, who trusted me, who fought together with me, meshed weapons with me, laughed with and teased me. That was the real Gimli, not the proud, arrogant Naugrim who could not bear an elf, who despised everything I am – who left Rivendell seeing only Ada in me. Even if I never see him again, it was friendship – it was not just something to get through the dark. 

But I know there was no love. Not from him. It was not love to him. 

Just fucking.

And it tears me inside to know that he thought it was not love to me, that he thinks I have been with others, that I would do so again – but I did not know how to say otherwise without asking for what he would not, could not give. I still do not know what I could have done differently, if there was anything I could have done to change the bleakness I feel now.

But, oh what I would give to have that time again. Whatever the cost; I knew there would be a cost, I chose to pay it.

I just wish I had had longer in his arms, in his bed.

I know that as the year fades through autumn into winter, I too am fading. I am fading as an elf will, when the one they love, the one they have given themselves to, has gone beyond hope of return. Somewhere inside, I suppose I should care. But all I can think is that I do not know how I can bear the weight of years that press down on me, that I have still to exist, without him. Should I stay here, until he is gone from this world – even if he never looks for me, would there be comfort in that, in perhaps hearing news of him? Should I go West and cross the Sea? Will I die from this, and go to the halls of Mandos? But I have no reason to care, the years will be as long wherever I am if he is not there. One way or another, this will not last and I find I do not care how it is resolved.

Until one of the seven comes to me. His name is Caradhil, and he was once, I remember through the mist that seems to surround me, a dear friend.

“Legolas,” he begins, “we are worried about you. You have not been yourself since your return. We know that you have heard the call of the sea. We fear that you plan to sail?”

“Plan?” I say, “No, I do not plan anything. Though I cannot say I would not board were it possible.”

“But we would not lose you again so soon. Yet we have not the longing and will not come West. Is there nothing to keep you here awhile?”

I sigh. “Here? In this new land of Eryn Lasgalen – so like to the old land of Mirkwood? No. There is nothing that I would stay for. And I am surprised you ask it, after the losses our troop suffered from my decisions.”

“They were not yours alone. Nothing ever was, save the blame. We were glad you were elsewhere, even when we heard where you had gone, for I think those times would have been no safer for you here,” he pauses, thinking, “but Legolas, did you not speak, when first you returned, of promises you had made to friends far away?”

This penetrates the mist, as perhaps nothing else could. I did promise to return to Gondor, to make that white city green. And to fair Ithilien to help in the re-making of that land. To that I can hold. And if somewhere inside me a voice whispers that there was also talk of new gates of mithril for that city, new stonework built by those of the mountain – what of it?

 

So I find myself one day in late winter, ready to journey on again, this time with a group of companions of my people. My seven are here, and also their closest. For though we have not spoken this in words, we all know that we do not intend to return, that this new forest has no place for us. Caradhil has done all in his power to make this easy for me. I cannot claim to have had much part in any of this, beyond lending my name and story to his plans. I think this last year has not been kind to him, yet he seems more confident, more able than the elf I knew – and as I have watched him work with this group, I see he is their leader, in all but name, and that they mesh in thought and deed as elves should. And I know that this too, I have lost, left somewhere in a forest, or underground, or on a battlefield far away.

But the leave-taking from the king – that is my part of the bargain. As we ready ourselves, I see him come out to speed us on our way;

“Lord king,” I say, bowing my head, “we would have your blessing on our journey and our venture. Will you grant it?”

He raises a sardonic eyebrow; 

“When all is ready, and the road half-begun, what matters it whether I grant my blessing – or my leave, which, again, you have not asked?” The cold face remains as calm and impassive as ever, as he adds, “go, then, Legolas, ever have you been discontent in my halls. May you find what it is you seek elsewhere. And I wish good fortune and fair prospects to your companions – there will ever be a place for them here, should things not turn out as you plan.”

Unspoken, but clear, there will be no place for me, as there has never been. And somewhere inside, it hurts again, and I long to speak, to release the tears of that lost elfling, but I know too well the further hurt of cold incomprehension that would follow. So I bow again, to the king, and swallow the feelings of the son as my father has swallowed his, all the long years of his life since the massacre on the plains of Dagorlad.

 

 

Ah, to be on the road again. What matters it where to? To journey. To pass on by. Among a company of elves; there is song, there is a pace of life I am accustomed to, and in the evening, by the fire, there is that comfort of hands, hair and ears that we call combing. And day by day I feel the mist retreat, and I am grateful to Caradhil for calling me back, if only for a little while.

 

It is still winter when we come to Minas Tirith, but winter with a strong promise of spring. A good time for taking thought for the planning and planting of gardens. As we approach, I see that there is work begun on the gates, my heart leaps within me and I feel my ear-tips flush. Can it be that he is here? Is it possible? Has he thought of me at all?

And if he is here – am I still lovely to him after all these months of fading? Will he want me when there will be so many others for him to choose from? 

He never did before.

But the king himself comes forth to welcome us before the gates, and I am occupied with many greetings and introductions, and explanations, and exclamations. Until the queen whispers an aside to him, and the king turns to me, and in front of all, Elessar says;  
“Legolas, we are delaying the reunion of old friends – have you not seen who is here?” and the crowd (for it is now a crowd) parts at his gesture. 

He is there. Not in the garb of a warrior, but a lord of his people, although still with pipe in hand. I feel alive. I step towards him, my face and ears flushing with emotion, my hands reaching to clasp him as I was greeted by the king, reaching to touch his ears as we touched after battle, but as he stands, unexpressive as the rock he so resembles, my eyes are caught. And between one pace and the next I see it. His braid. It is changed. I feel the blood drain from my face and ears, I feel cold, for I know this style, I have seen it on too many to be mistaken; this is the style of one who is no longer alone. 

Once more, it seems, I must be grateful for all my Ada’s lessons. I keep my cold elven mask in place, I greet him as one warrior to another, no more. There are no tears. I do not throw myself at his feet and beg to know who this is, and why, and what they give that I could not. I remain a cold, aloof elven prince, greeting a dwarf-mason, high risen among his people, but of little concern to me. And if my heart is broken inside me, none shall know.

 

Later, I find that I have perhaps, acted all too well. After all the evening dining, talking, drinking, a chamberlain offers to show us to the rooms made ready. He shows my companions to their quarters, and then turns to me;

“My lord, the king has commanded that you would wish to be near my lord of Aglarond, for the sake of your friendship,” he seems doubtful of this, as well he may, for we have exchanged no more words than barest courtesy demanded this evening, but when the king of men commands something, the rest of us must make the best of it, “would you come this way.”

I bid my companions good night, and follow, thinking, it is just one night. I can avoid him and tomorrow quietly move to be elsewhere – I am sure I can find a reason Aragorn will accept.

He leads me to another chamber, and I thank him, as a prince should. It seems no different, and I am not sure why this was considered closer to ‘my lord of Aglarond’. However, it has a balcony, and alone, hair unbound, I will go out to watch the stars. I sit on the low balustrade, arms clasped around my legs, trying to find peace out there, trying to ignore the pain as I have ignored it all evening. Trying to forget that it seems that the friendship, which I have clung to a belief in all these months, was but a shield in times of darkness; was no more real than the love of which I dreamed.

And there he finds me. For what I had not realised, is that this balcony has two rooms with doors onto it, and it is the obvious place for a dwarf to bring his last pipe of the night. I hear his tread, and his startled cough as he notices me;

“Master elf, what do you here?” then, with a hint of the old sourness, “or should I say, Prince elf? For so you seem today.”

“So I have always been. Just that sometimes it can be forgot,” I sigh, “I am here because Aragorn, in his wisdom, decided we would enjoy sharing this balcony between our rooms,” I still cannot turn and face him, but I will say this, whatever it cost me, for I know I must if there is to be any honour left, “I saw your braid, Gimli, I wish you joy. Who is your love – one of your party here?” and, when he does not answer, I make myself continue, “Are – are you married –I – I remember you once spoke of wishing for children?” and I hope he does not hear the break in my voice as I think what it would be to be his, to be held as he held me in that cave. To be loved.

He is silent a moment.

“There is no joy, elf,” he pauses again, “he who I love, cares not for me.”

Somehow, this makes it worse. Bad it was to think him happy with another, but to think he feels as I do, and be unable to comfort him, this is a sharper pain by far. I search for words, but before I can find them, he continues;

“Perhaps he might have once. But I let him slip through my fingers, like glistening water on a summer day, because I was afraid. I let him go and all my skill in battle and in stone will not bring him back.”

I grieve. But know not what to say. Elves have no knowledge of this pain – or if we do, we have not words for it. I try;

“I am sorry. Is it indeed as they say, and dwarves love only once? I have no knowledge of these things. I am sorry.” And I know this is not the quality of words most would expect from an elf – but he has never had a high opinion of elves, so perhaps it will do.

Or perhaps not. There is a silence, and I realise he has gone to his own room. Unbidden, my head sinks to my knees, and I weep, for myself and for him. And for all that will never be.

I do not hear his steps as he returns. But I hear his next words, from very close behind me, as he begins to comb my hair;

“Legolas, the one I love rode away without looking back, after a night and a day and a night of love. The one I love rode away, his hair in the braids it had always held, showing no sign of my loving. The one I love offered in all that time only such games as any two might play – he did not offer me words of love, or even the fullest pleasure, he did not touch my hair or remake my braids. Yet, I hoped all this long time. I came here, hoping, and when my love came to me, he did not greet me by touching, he did not take my hands, he did not touch my ears, he could not even smile. His face was cold. He cared not. He had not changed his braids for me. He wished me with another. Yet he sits here, golden hair unbound before me, beautiful in the moonlight, weeping for my pain. And I am lost as ever I was.”

And his hands are on my shoulders, and I turn and cling, unfrozen at last;

“If you are lost, what hope is there for me? I have loved you so long. I know not what you mean – you braided my hair as it had been – I took it as a sign that it meant nothing. You did not ask me to touch your hair. You spoke no words of love to me. I offered you all you asked – I know not what pleasure I did not give, but I say again, I will learn whatever you will teach. You spoke no words of love to me. I dared not. You know so much more than I,” but there is no time for more, before he is kissing me, and I am kissing him, and I know that this is my home, here in his arms, wherever he may be. I know I will follow him, wherever he asks me to go. This time, please Valar, there will be no misunderstanding. This time when he carries me to his bedchamber he does not hold back, this time as our clothes seem almost to melt off us, he is saying words I never dared to dream I would hear from him, he is promising we will never be parted again. And I would like to stay in this romantic dream – but that he is saying over and over that he loves me, that he wants me, that he has wanted me so long, that he wants to have me at last – and suddenly I am angry;

“What do you mean – at last?” I pull back from him, and see the surprise in his eyes, “you had me – you had me over and over, every way you wanted – I do not understand – you speak as though I had refused you something?” I am furious, I find, that he is blaming me, and suddenly all the hurt and rejection comes back, “you could have had me any night you wanted – but no, you were too busy fucking Rohirrim, fucking rangers, fucking men of Gondor, fucking tavern women – fucking every being in Arda – you left me til there was no-one else available, and still I did not refuse you – I did all you asked – what more do you want, dwarf?” and I am shouting, I am no longer icy, no longer Thranduilion, I am pushing him off me with all my strength, I want to hurt him, I want him to see what he has done, how he hurt me.

But for all my greater reach and speed, he is stronger, and he holds me at arm’s length, and now he is angry too, he is breathing hard as he says; “I had you, did I? Oh no, master elf, oh I think I would remember that,” and for all my anger and fighting, he can still use his weight to hold me down as he sits astride me, pinning me to the bed, leaning on my wrists as he spits words at me; “and you would remember it too. Did I have you? Did I? How did I have you, Legolas? Were you on hands and knees when I mounted you? Were you flat on your back with your legs wrapped round me when I fucked you? Were you? Or did you sit astride me and ride my cock for your pleasure?” he pauses to draw breath, and I suppose must see my confusion as flashes of memory show me every one of those positions, let me feel again the kissing, licking, touching, the urgent rocking and rubbing of our bodies – but; “no, Legolas, you made it very clear, having you was not an option. Only games for this dwarf. Only the games you had played with so many others. No fucking, and no love.”

He stops, and I look up at him, disarmed, lost again in this maze of words I only half understand;

“Let me go – I never – I hadn’t – I told you – I thought – but we did – let me go – I don’t know, I told you, I don’t know. I did what you wanted, I loved it – I love you – I – you said nothing of love – nothing of – what are you saying you wanted – let me go – I – I don’t understand you – why are you trying to hurt me – let me go,” but all he hears is, “let me go.”

And he does. He gets up, and turns away;

“Go, then. Go to your room, and your life and let me get on with mine,” he sounds bitter, “you have had your fun, you have captured the son where you let the father escape from your prisons – and I am not sure his cell was not more merciful than where you leave me. Go, elf. Go back to your forest and your song and your bloody silly ways – and take the comb on the balcony with you. It is no use to me.”

I stand, shocked, bereft, where only minutes ago I thought all was perfect – and I know it is my own fault, I should have kept silent. But – I have my pride. I wait for a moment, hoping he will turn, but he does not. 

And I have no choice but to walk away.


	29. combs

I stand on the balcony again, fighting more tears, fighting the desire to run back to him, to say whatever it takes to have him hold me again – I will not. I have my pride. I am not to blame. 

I will wait for him to come to me.

I am an elf.

I am Thranduilion.

I am good at waiting.

 

But as I stand, looking at the stars, as though there was ever any comfort to be found there, something catches my eye. On the ground is a comb, dropped by him when I turned – and I reach for it, wondering what he meant by his last words.

If I had thought, I would have supposed it was my old comb, perhaps repaired with dwarven skill, but it is not. It is new, it is the most beautiful thing I have seen for – well, since last I saw something crafted with such care. An age, it seems to me.

It is mithril, shining, polished, set with tiny diamonds and emeralds, and the design on it – so perfectly thought out and engraved – stars and leaves intertwined on one side, and on the other – I gasp – he has used runes and elven letters to blend our names.

Looking at it, I am humbled. What skill have I in comparison to this? Until now, I have thought him a warrior, as I am a warrior, and I knew we were even – but this – I have no craft such as this. What peace-time skills have I? Only some knowledge of plants and trees – I am not even very skilled in this, only as any might be after so many years watching them grow.

And this thought is what makes me change my mind. I have had so many years, I shall have so many more. Will I spend them all alone? I fear the stubbornness of dwarves. I may be good at waiting – but I have no longer the time to wait. He does not have the time to wait. – He may be young, as his race counts time, but compared to all the years I have seen, his whole life is short. And shall I waste it by my foolish pride?

Will my pride keep me warm in the long nights? Has it kept me warm this winter? Will I really choose the cold loneliness of Thranduilion over the warmth of love?

 

Holding the comb, I go back to his room door;

“Gimli, son of Gloin, I am sorry – ,” I begin, but then I see that, seated on the bed, he is weeping – not as an elf weeps, not as I have wept, silent tears running down smooth cheeks, but as a dwarf weeps, great heaving sobs streaking his face and beard, his eyes shut and hands pressed to his mouth – for he does not want me to hear. What have I done to him? – And suddenly I see that he is not only the strong warrior, not only the skilled craftsman, but he too has a longing for love – and he thinks I care not.

I cannot bear it. This time I am careful, this time I do not drop this wondrous comb, but it is no longer in my hands when I fall to my knees beside him, formal words of apology forgotten, and now I am pulling him to me and burying my hands in his hair as I hold him and kiss his face, trying to kiss the tears away;

“I am here, I love you, I am sorry,” I say, and I know it is not enough, “please, Gimli, look at me, we – we cannot let this go – we have to hold on to this – please – I meant none of it – at least – I did – I was so jealous those months – I love you – it need not matter if– if you love me – please,” and I am scared to say this, looking at his inkings, but, “whatever it is you need to believe I love you, tell me. I – I would let you carve your name on me if that is what dwarves need.” But I hope it is not, please Valar let it not be.

And he holds me, and, with a return to himself, says;

“Stupid sodding elf, make your mind up,” but the way he is gripping me tells me that he has made up his mind at last, and that he is not about to let me go again.

And I answer;

“I could call again for a plague on the stiff necks of dwarves – I have loved you since Moria – which I suppose I had best learn to call Khazad-dum – of course I love you – I have been so lost without you these months. Tell me what you want of me.”

He laughs, among the remnants of his tears,

“Only since Moria – the slowness of elves – I have wanted you since Caradhras. And for all my love of my mountain – it has been too quiet without your singing.”

I smile,

“I do not sing as much as you say I do,” - he snorts - “I do not – and I shall never believe you when you complain again. Only a year – that is all it is – look at us – we went through so much together, that could not part us, yet we have been tearing each other to pieces ever since there were no more battles – all our differences are so many.” And I rest my forehead against his, as we sit curled together;

“Jealous?” he says, “you were jealous – why did you not speak?” and before I can even begin to search for words to answer, he adds, “and what do you mean – I have never fucked a ranger, or a man of Gondor and out of my own lands I would not dare risk a woman – the customs of Men are too strange – your elf-eyes must be failing if you did not see that since I met you, I have cared only for tall, slender, blond, blue-eyed, beardless – elves. And since there was not one in my bed, I have made do with Rohirrim.”

“I hated the Rohirrim worst. Those arrogant twins were merciless, even Eomer began to tease me about your fondness for his riders,” I begin, but he twists his hand in my hair, and stops me, a finger to my lips,

“Never fond, elf. Just keen to fuck.”

“That is supposed to be better?” and he raises his brows and asks;

“How many elves have you been combing and braiding with in all this time?”

“While I was with you – since Lorien – since I understood my heart – none,” and I think I will not explain that pride and pique and Lord Celeborn’s words at Aragorn’s wedding had much to do with that.

“This winter?”

“My group only,” and as he scowls I say, “but do not tell me you have not been fucking your way through Dale – blonds at least?”

“For your information, master elf, no, I have not,” he hesitates, “I braided you, you fool. Even if you did not return yours, I gave you my heart. That is what it means. You know this. Everyone knows this about dwarves.”

I look at him blankly,  
“Everyone does not. I did not.” I pause and say, “But you knew, I know you knew, I heard Aragorn tell you all, so long ago, elves only – only fuck – when they love.”

“Aye,” he says, “but we did not...,” and then he pauses as though to change what he would say, “oh shit – that – that night – you meant you had not – it was all new?” and as I nod, flushing and biting my lip, he strokes my hair and pulls me to him for another kiss, “really new? Oh sweet Mahal, oh my poor elf, I did not know, I – I was not very kind,” and I close my eyes as his hands run over and over my hair and face and at last I can begin to believe that he is listening to me when I bring myself to tell him,

“Kind? I thought you were wonderful. I had not kissed, I – I did not know – I – when you touched me – I did not know what was happening to me. What we did – I – I bound myself to you,” and I hear the tears in my voice as I say, “I even – when you were sleeping – I let myself make the vows – I knew it meant nothing to you – but – but I loved you so – and then,” and now it is I that am sobbing, “and then you said – you thought – I had – with others – that I would again – I – you would not see. I could not say – you did not change my braids – you still say I did not give enough – I don’t understand – I did everything you wanted – I loved it so – I did please you, I know I did – I don’t know what else you so want – I only know I love you – but you did not change my braids, you let me go,” and I am almost incoherent with all the pain and the need for him to understand. Now it is he kissing my tears away, and he says,

“But Legolas, you did not ask me to change your braids, you did not tell me how it was, you rode away as though it meant nothing after you said you would not leave a lover,” and then he catches himself, and, “and – oh shit – I did not ask you to stay with me, I did not ask you to braid me or let me change your braids, I did not tell you how I felt, I did not understand. I – I thought if you would do those things with me, you must have before. I thought you would tell me if we reached the line that elves can’t cross – please me, you more than pleased me, it was amazing, I have not stopped thinking of those hours – you did not seem as though you didn’t know what you were doing,” he laughs, “bloody elves – you always have to do everything better than the rest of us without learning or trying – all skill comes naturally to your hands,” but as I begin a muffled protest, “no, ssh love, I don’t mean it, it was my fault. I knew I knew more than you, even if I didn’t know just how much more. But – if you had not even kissed – what in Durin’s name have you been doing in your forest all these years?”

I hide my face against him, wondering why this is still so difficult for me to say and him to understand,  
“Elves are different – I don’t know why. Did I not tell you this when we were in the boat, after Lorien? We feel no desire until we love – I never knew these feelings until I loved you – I,” I hesitate, but this needs saying, “we do not even talk about it. I longed for you since Moria but I did not know what I wanted – I thought I wanted to comb with you – and I do, oh I do – but when you held me after the last battle – I began to want more of that – but – but when I saw you kiss others – hold others – I hated it, I was so jealous – when, when I began to understand there was more – I wanted you to teach me – but you would not see me,” I break off, hurt because he is laughing.

But it is a kind laughter, it is laughter at himself as well, “would not see you? I could see and think of nothing but you, you daft sodding elf. You and your bloody singing, and your waist in my hands, your tight arse against my cock on that sodding horse, and the sight of you in your princely jewels and you made me so angry I wanted to throw you to the ground and ride you – but you didn’t want that, and your teasing dancing that made me hard as mithril to watch, and the way you breathed when you were afraid in that cave, breathing as though you were hot for me, and then the way you felt in my arms, but you would not touch my beard, and I thought you could never want a – a Naug – after elves, and your golden hair, but I could not comb you, and your sapphire eyes that would never see me with desire, and your pretty kissable lips, your clever tongue, oh how I wanted your mouth on my cock, and your silly pointy ears that flush so adorably, even though I didn’t know how you would moan when I kissed them, and your ridiculously long legs to wrap round me, and your gorgeous arse that I want....,” and he breaks off, but as he speaks his fingers trace over me, and I am a bit shocked. I did not know – I suppose I should not be shocked – I had not thought, but Gimli is still Gimli – he is not about to compose me a poem, he is not going to change his way of speaking. Then I realise – he is, as that comb should have showed me, one who thinks with his fingers – this tracing is his poem. And – right now, I think it is worth more than any poem, and he is stirring up those needs again, but I still am hurting and for all that I don’t want him to stop the touching, I say,

“I could tell you all the times I thought of you, all the times I wanted to creep close to you, all the times I wanted to say,” I take a breath and make myself, “see me, want me, fuck me. I could tell you how I longed to touch your beard, but thought I had to wait for you to ask as I would wait to be offered an elf’s comb, how I felt when you held me in that bloody cave, how I wore my jewels and all you could see was precious stones, how I danced for you and you went with another and left me to cry on poor Eomer’s shoulder all night......”

“Eomer?!!” his grip tightens dangerously, and he growls, “fucking horse-lord. I knew he was looking at you. I should have taken my axe....”

“He was looking at me because he was not as blind as some fool of a mine-dwelling dwarf,” I say, risking more anger. “Do not threaten Eomer – he is your liege lord for Aglarond. He is a man for women. He – he knows unrequited love when he sees it – he lived with his sister. He – he probably stopped me drinking myself into a fight with the twins.”

He makes a completely indescribable noise, and dismisses Eomer, “well, we saved his kingdom for him. He owes us,” and I laugh, but then he says, “we have been fools – we could have had this winter together – we have not time to waste,” and he looks at me, “but, elf – I am mortal – what will this do to you? I would not have you die for love of me.”

“That is not your choice,” I answer, and pause, “it is too late – you should have thought of that before you made me love you. In my heart and with my body, I have loved you, there has been no other – you are my choice. I cannot love another now,” and before he can start arguing, “At least, I suppose some elves perhaps have, some Noldor it is said, but I, I am a wood-elf, I do not know how – I could not. As for dying – without you I shall fade – but that would happen now – look at me – it nearly happened this winter.” I feel the shock run through him as he realises what I mean, and I hastily say, “Ask rather, what will this do to you? Will your parents be concerned that you do not marry? What of your wish for children?”

He smiles;

“Oh elf, you are daft. Do you really think I am going to walk away for the sake of possible children – assuming I could find any dwarrowdam who wanted to be second choice to an elf – dwarves are no more capable of loving again than elves – and I find I cannot even want another in my bed since I tasted you,” he pauses, “but – I am sorry. I did not know how it was for you – I thought – I thought what we did was just – just pleasure. I would never – if I had known – I would not hurt you for anything. I dared not speak of love. I thought – you are an elf – you are a wordsmith – it was for you to speak.”

I had not thought of it like that. I must be the least eloquent elf ever created – all my words desert me whenever I need them most – and all the old lies fill my head when I am afraid, “And I was waiting for the dwarf to claim his possession if he wanted it – and when you did, I did not understand. We have so many differences. But – your parents, your kin?”

“Will have to cope. I could be dead hundreds of times over, but for your bow and knives – that will help. I think my parents may have known – they read me too well, they heard me speak of you too much. They will forgive me – if you are at my side when I ask them – how not if it is too late to change?” Then he gives me a sly sidelong look, “although you might want to prepare an apology for a certain incident with a locket.”

I bite my lip and meet his eye, as for the first time we acknowledge this history between us, “you are no goblin-mutant, my love. But if your father thinks I was rude about his wife – which I was – I daresay he has insulted you, melethron-nin, often enough in all your growing years to make us even?”

He laughs, “Tell him that. He will like it. And wish you joy of all my faults, which he will then tell you over as many ales as you can drink.” And suddenly I realise that he is expecting me to – to join his family – to – the only word I know is – marry him. I had no idea. I – I thought this would ever be between us, that we would be friends to all others as we have been. I – I am completely taken aback, I had meant – what of your parents when you do not marry, not what of your parents when you bring me home to them. 

What it is to have the confidence of an adored son, I think again. But this is yet another difference, as I see when he says, 

“What of your father – your brothers – your – your group, is that the word?”

And I wonder how to answer. I will start with the easiest, I think.

“My group – they will not understand beyond – shield-brothers. But they will understand that. I think, in truth, Caradhil will be so pleased he has not to send my lord King news of my death he would be happy for me to do anything,” and I feel guilty as my beloved winces, but – not that guilty. He owes me some remorse, and I am sure I can find a use for it. Anyway, “My brothers – I do not know who they comb with, beyond each other, why would they care what I do? We – are not a close family,” I pause, trying to think how to say what I wish without another misunderstanding, “My father – my lord King – he made it clear he does not expect me to return from Ithilien. So why bother him with news he is unlikely to rejoice at?” and I see puzzlement on his face, but to my relief he decides it is not worth pursuing, and instead holds me close again.

“Bed,” he says, “bed, elf, I need to hold you.”

And once more, we are on this bed – but this time, we are just lying together, my head on his chest, his arms round me, talking, trying to understand where we go now. Idly my hands are playing with such of his beard and hair as is unbraided – and he looks at me;

“Legolas, would you, do you wish to,” he hesitates, “my hair – would you have it loose?”, and he must see the desire, the need, on my face, for he reaches out – oh untidy dwarf – and hunting through the pile of – it seems to me – random objects that are within reach – he picks up something. Then, and I think he is trying very hard to get this right, he turns to me, and says, formally, in a way I have rarely heard him speak, “Legolas, son of Thranduil, prince of the elves of Ithilien, will you comb me, will you teach me to comb you as you desire? For I love you, I would braid you, today and every day, I – I would offer you the beads I made for my One the year I came of age. I offer you my comb.”

For all the formality, and for all my understanding that this is as new to him as to me, I must try very hard not to laugh when I see what he is holding out,

“Melethron-nin, oh Gimli-nin,” I say, “that is my comb. I thought it lost – it was broken – why do you have it?”

“Because I took it to mend, because I would not forget those hours in that darksome forest of yours,” and I cannot stop myself from reacting to such an insult, “ow – it is darksome and full of bloody great spiders – because I wanted something of yours to keep by me, and I am not fool enough to take one of your weapons. Elf, I asked you a question, can you not give me an answer and end this foolishness?”

I am still examining my comb – his comb, I suppose now – still slightly amused at the idea of this hardened warrior being so unexpectedly sentimental, and yet, as the idea of taking a weapon shows me, still the same. But it is not fair to make him wait, I realise, he has been waiting all these months, just as I, even if he expresses it differently. For once in my life, I need to find the right words,

“I receive your comb, Gimli, Gloin’s son, Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, and,” and now it is my turn to hunt about, “and I offer you mine once again – this time to use as often as you will. I love you also, I would gladly wear the beads you offer and no others. I – It is not my custom – I have no beads to offer you, but I desire to comb with none but you, and I would give you any or all my jewels if you would have them?” I pause, and I think of what he said, and ask, “Gimli, later, will you change my braids at last? And – may I braid you, may I show you that you have my heart?”

“Aye, I receive your comb,” and my dwarf – oh kind Valar – my dwarf, my Gimli, my love, my One – is blushing, with – I am not sure what – pleasure I think, embarrassment at such emotion I suspect, “which I could also point out was once mine, until I gifted it. I do not want your bloody jewels, you fool, but – I would have you choose me beads to show I am yours, if you have no skill to make them. But we need no braids here in this room – teach me this combing of yours, elf,” he sighs, not very convincingly, “ - and I suppose you will sing as well.”

But I am not going to take any notice of his mock-complaints. At last, at last, I have my hands in his hair, it is flowing over my fingers like silk. I have his unbraided beard to comb, to stroke, to play with. And I was right – the pleasure of touching is increased so many times by seeing his face, by his habit of snatching kisses as my fingers pass his mouth. It occurs to me to wonder if elves’ well-known antipathy to beards is actually jealousy – but I do not think I will say this, or I will clearly never hear the end of it.

Besides, I have better things to do with my mouth. And a somewhat surprised dwarf to teach – it seems there are some things I know more of, some pleasures he has not experienced. 

“Legolas,” he says, “what is all this combing and ear-touching to you? What does it mean – if braiding is nothing but friendship – what is this?” and then I see a glimpse of the fierce possessiveness of dwarves, “you have combed many elves – I have seen you – in Lorien – this is not new to you – what did it mean when you were with them?”

I flush, defensive, even as my hands are busy enjoying him, teaching him, “In a group – it means nothing more than friendship, pleasure, comfort. When two are comb-mates – it means more – it means a bond – we do not specify more than that.”

“So – it could be brothers, friends, lovers?” and I wonder who he is thinking of – then I guess.

“It could. It could be parent and child even. So they tell me,” and I know I sound bitter again, and I should not, I have no need to anymore, “but if you are thinking of Elrond’s sons – no-one is quite sure, and no-one has ever dared ask. Although,” I speculate, “they may find more questions if they stay when their father goes West.”

He snorts derisively, “Really, elf? You think any would risk angering the brothers of the queen?” and I suppose he is right, sadly those two will continue to be protected – but he is not finished questioning me yet – trust it seems does not come easy to my dwarf. “So, for what bonds have you combed with one other?”

And this is hard to admit, but I must, “None. My brothers are close to each other, but much older than I – we have never had much in common. Even Caradhil – we were never so close as that – he is true Silvan, I am not – it is complicated.” Even Tauriel, I think, she was Silvan – we never managed to get past that, though I longed to – I had not the courage to defy my Ada. Ironically, I was not brave enough to be comb-mate with a Silvan – but I can love a dwarf.

“Good. I am not good at sharing,” and my raised brows must convey my doubt perfectly, for he almost blushes and qualifies, “not at sharing something I value – oh elf, a drunken fuck means nothing and I care not how many others have had the same – can you not understand the difference?”

Not really, I think, even as he kisses me again, (and oh his kisses stir those longings, needs within me). But I do not say it – what point is there – neither he nor I can change the past, it is best left alone. I will trust to the jealous nature of dwarves not to continue in these habits – and maybe I will explain that elves can be jealous too if I think I need. For if he is now my love, I will not share – and whatever he told those Rohirrim in Edoras many months ago, an arrow in the back or a knife across the throat is indeed an option. I am an elf. I am not forgiving. I am still Thranduilion.

And as though he half-follows my thought, he asks, “what of your parents though? If combing is affection for elves – surely you must have been loved by your parents when you were small? Elves love their elflings don’t they?” and in that I glimpse a world of assumptions, and I remember again that locket of his father’s.

“I never knew my mother, my – my lord King is not – affectionate. He – he loves me in his way,” I have spent years telling myself this, I will not let go of this hard-clung to belief, “but he – I do not think he has combed with any since my mother went West,” not even my brothers – though at least they have memories of when Ada was different, when he showed his love like any elven father. Before I was born, before I sent my mother West, as they often told me when, as an elfling, I ran after them, looking for something they would not give. 

“We are not like dwarves – perhaps we live too long to value the time we have.” Though I know this is not the truth of it, I have seen other elves with their little ones, I know others who remain close, close as dwarf-families, for centuries. Suddenly I find I need to show him, I need him to believe me, and I bring out my most-treasured memory for him, “Ada does love me. He is not like your father – he never did the things that most fathers perhaps do – but he has ever wanted the best from me. Once, long ago, he thought I had been lost in battle, and when he found I was not, had survived, had fought well, had kept my troop together, he said I had ‘neither disgraced nor disappointed him that day’. It was the highest praise.” I smile, warmed as ever by the recollection, and add, “Even when I was responsible for the loss of Smeagol, he was not furious – he said it was no more than he had expected of me. And the only punishment was to go to Rivendell to report the loss – which was no punishment at all as it turned out,” and I turn into his face for a kiss, but though he seems to accept what I tell him, I see something I do not understand in his eyes, as he says,

“Enough of your father now, enough of all outside this room. Tonight is you and I. The world can wait for tomorrow.”

And, as ever, he is right. There are far better things to think about. I have a dwarf to teach to comb, to comb for pleasure not merely for the purpose of being tidy. I have the most wondrous comb I have ever seen, the most lovingly wrought gift I could imagine, and, oh dear, romantic, loving dwarf, he has my old comb, the break mended with such skill it is improved – and that is good. For I have seen his other dwarf-combs, and, unlike this perfect gift, they have not the perfect edge that an elf needs, that gives that sensation that I will teach my dwarf to enjoy as I do. I have my love in my arms, I have all night to sing with him – I will have his voice with mine, I will persuade him. And in the morning – I will braid him, and he me before we leave this room, that all may read our love.

The song is back in my heart, it is more joyful than it has ever been. I can feel the happiness in me undoing all the months of fading, all the hours of grief, I can feel I am coming back to myself and I will be stronger and more beautiful than I have ever been – because in his eyes I am.

And as his wandering hands cause a hitch in my breath, I realise – he has other plans for later tonight – and although this is no forest floor, I would relive those hours in truth, not just in memory.

 

 

And it is some unmeasured time later, when we are both well combed, tired with loving, and are dozing, curled together again, my head on his chest, our legs entwined, that I think to ask again,

“And what was it you wanted of me? What is this special act you so desire? – and why is it worth so much more to you than all the loving we have so far had – which seems to me so good?”

He strokes me again, half waking more desire, 

“Love, it is good. It is bloody good, you are fantastic, you learn so fast, you please me – do not think otherwise,” he is trying to reassure me, “but – you like kissing, yes?”

“Yes,” I answer, and he kisses me, and I respond again whimpering into his mouth, clinging once more – but he stops.

“Yes, and you like being combed – but you would not want to go back to just combing?”

“No,” I know that, I could not bear it if he stopped kissing me, “nor to stop at kissing – I need your hands on me, I need you in my mouth, I would never want to give that up.” And I give a little moan at the thought of it – and he is kissing me again, and I feel his hardness against me.

“No, well, that is it – I was wrong – it is not worth more – nothing is worth more than this lying together – I realised this when you were not at my side – if all you wanted was combing I would learn to be content. If you cannot – I would not ask you for anything you cannot give – just – it feels so bloody good – if you could want it – I – I would like – to – to have you – because you look so bloody fuckable,” he is at his least persuasive.

“But – what is it you want?” I am nearing weeping with frustration – why can he not tell me what he wants – I cannot guess – he must tell me and I will do whatever it is, I think. I run my hands over his chest and arms, and kiss at his face, as I try to understand, and he pulls me on top of him and with one hand in my hair he holds my head and begins to kiss me again, so thoroughly that I forget everything else but this. 

His other hand is stroking my back, and down, and then – my eyes snap open and I am looking at him with a question – and he pulls back from where he is kissing me and says;

“This? Is this alright? – Relax, love, I’m not going to hurt you,” and he keeps stroking at me, inside me, pressing into me, and I gasp as his other hand is stroking at my ear-tip, and he pulls me down and he is kissing me again. I am holding onto his arms, and oh how he knows me, how he knows what I want, the gentleness on my ear, the pressure inside me, the falling into his mouth and I am moving my hips to slide against him and moaning into him, and he pulls back again to ask; “Is this good, do you want more, love?”

“More?” I can hardly think, he is still moving his finger in me, and his hand on my ear, “I – I – Gimli, yes, more – what – what do you?” I am not making a lot of sense. But he is pushing further into me, and suddenly – suddenly I gasp into his mouth, I am clutching at him, I don’t know what this is, this wave rushing through me, and he stops kissing to say; “not hurting? No? More?”

“yes, oh yes, more – don’t stop – please don’t stop,” I am, at least, remembering to speak Westron not Sindarin, but I fear the eloquence of elves has deserted me – again.

“Not going to stop, love, not going to stop until you come for me, come for me,” and he is whispering into my ear, and I had no idea how that would be, and he changes to his own dark tongue, and I don’t understand what he is saying but I don’t care, it sounds so good, and what he is doing to me feels so good, I am clinging to him, whimpering, wanting more, more. And as the wave rushes over me, again and again, I realise that somewhere in all this, he has slipped another finger in me, and it feels so right – and then suddenly, he stops moving, and speaks so I can understand again; “do you want to come like this, my love, come now? – Or do you want more – do you want even more of me? What do you want, my love, my elf, my Legolas?”

His voice saying my name, makes me whimper again, and I know what I want; “more, more, more of you, what is there? What more...?” but even as I say it, I feel his hardness between my legs, and I finally realise what it is he wants, and I feel so stupid for not understanding before – but I have never heard of this, I do not know if other elves have, but I have not, I did not even know two males could love as we do, but we do, and of course I want this, all I ever want is to please him, and I reach down to touch him again. He gives that groan which I am coming to recognise means he is as needful as I, and he moves his hand out of me, making me give a sad little moan, and he smiles against my face and says; “kneel up for me, love, you need to be in control, you need to make sure I don’t hurt you,” and he pushes me upright, kneeling astride him, and hands me a vial of oil. I am not quite sure for a minute, then I realise he has used this in me already, and using it, I stroke him, and get that groan again – and I love this power. I keep stroking him, and suddenly I know what I want, what I need, and I stop. Even as his eyes begin to question, I am off him, and turning onto my hands and knees, I am spreading my legs and I say; “like this, want you like this,” and at last I understand, at last I am able to say those words; “fuck me, Gimli, I want you to fuck me, please, now, I need you,” and from his reaction those words are as strong as I thought, and please him more than I could ever have guessed. 

He is behind me, between my legs, his hand pushing my head down; “face on your arms, that’s right, oh elf, oh Legolas,” and he is in me, deep in me. I gasp at the pressure, the fullness, but oh, his hips are against me, and he is thrusting into me, and I am wailing, I cannot get enough, and he is holding me, and I am crying out; “Gimli, harder, please, harder, please, yes oh yes, oh yes,” and I did not know anything could be like this, and I love him, and he loves me, and he is saying it, over and over as he pounds into me. Then somehow he changes the angle and I can hear his breathing so desperate, and the waves are rushing over me again and again more powerful than anything I have ever felt or imagined. I am screaming, screaming his name, begging him not to stop, I want this, it is so good. I am coming undone, bucking wildly under him, and he is holding me and I know, I can feel, he is so deep in me, he is coming inside me, and it is beyond anything.

He leans forward onto me, his arms around me, holding me as he has so often held me, his head buried in my hair as it has so often been when we rode together. But this time, he is kissing me softly, and for a long moment we are still, just feeling, just being together. I feel my legs begin to shake with the weight of him, with the exhaustion, and he must feel it too, as he so gently pulls out of me, and keeping his arms round me, brings me down onto him, cradled against him.

“Fucking Mahal in a snowdrift, Legolas,” he sounds as breathless as I feel, “where did that come from? I wasn’t expecting a ride like that.”

I blush, and try to hide my face against him, but he is smiling at me and turning me up towards him for more kissing, so I manage to answer,

“I am no cold Noldor, not even a properly stately Sindar,” I try and explain, “I am a wood-elf. We are not known for our restraint.”

“No,” he answers thoughtfully, “I can see why not. Woken a bloody sleeping dragon, haven’t I?” and as I meet his eyes, I can’t help but laugh,

“Is that not what you wanted?” I say, “I thought you did not want some shy maiden, I thought you wanted a warrior to match you? Or why love me? – I have never let you best me in battle or in our arguments – you know how we are together.”

“How we are?” he asks, “Aye, I know. Bloody fantastic, that’s how we are. I just – I thought it might take more practice to get there. Bloody elves, you do everything right first time don’t you?”

“No,” I say, “or I would have known to ask for this months ago.”

“Probably as well,” he laughs, “we would never have made it out of that bloody wood.” Then he changes mood suddenly, and looks into my eyes, “I love you, you are mine, I am yours – I will never leave you. I will wait for you beyond my death until the world is renewed and I find you again.”

And all I can do, is hold him, and answer; “I am yours. I will follow you, whatever it takes, I will find you. You are mine. Forever. There will never be another.”

And he strokes my face, “Never. I give you my name,” and he whispers his most secret name – and I know that with that, I can find him, with that, I have him for all time, with that, not even the Valar can keep me from his side. And for a moment, it grieves me I have no name to give him – but I have given him everything I am, that must be enough.

Now, as I run my hands through his hair again, stroking those dear ears, I dare to whisper his true-name, and as he holds me, I say; “Again? More? Please?” and as he seems surprised, I add; “I would have everything. Many times. I would have you love me, teach me, teach me everything you know, forget all those others for me. Dwarf, you are not going to tire before your elf, are you?” – which is hardly fair, because I know he will. Not that he will ever admit it – but I am not going to stop teasing him now. Why would I? 

 

 

Later, again, we lie, me curled round him, his arms holding me, and his hand running through my hair as I play with his beard, vows said – in my Sindarin, in his Khuzdul, repeated in our Westron – and even stumbled through in his Sindarin and my Khuzdul. I know that he will stay with me, even when I must go West, for I know that now we have found each other, now we are joined as one before Iluvatar, now we will never be parted again.

This time, as my beloved dwarf falls into his mortal sleep, I do not need to dread his waking. This time, I am not scared of the dawn. This time, I truly am home, this is all the love and safety I could ever need. This is no illusion. This time, I think, we have managed to talk to each other. This time we know we have differences, but we know we need each other enough to overcome them. He is the other half of my soul, he knows it, and neither of us can be content alone.

And if these months have taught me anything, it is that when his mortality overtakes him, as I know it must at last, I too shall fade, and follow him, wherever our path then takes us.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> since Legolas still hasn't managed to explain this too well, he is, like Thranduil (& hence his brothers) Sindarin. however, all the other Mirkwood elves are Sylvan (wood-elves). the relationship between Legolas & Thranduil (& between Legolas & his brothers) being what it is, Legolas is very definitely 'culturally' Sylvan - he feels like a wood-elf - even though he is genetically Sindarin. In this story anyway.


	30. morning

There’s someone at the door. Sod off. Am asleep. And finally have my beautiful elf in my bed. This time it isn’t a drunken mistake, this time it isn’t just a roll in the leaves, this time we have actually managed to bloody talk to each other. This time, it was real, it was right – it was everything I ever thought it could be and I am knackered. So sod off.

Oh. Elf has gone to deal with it. That’s good.

Slightly surprised elf can stand, let alone walk, after last night. All those months of longing were not wasted – all those fantasies of fucking him were nothing compared to actually having him. I was right when I thought he would writhe and scream, moan and thrash under me – right to think it would feel so good. Over and over again – I had not thought – this is a being who can run for four sodding days and nights across the plains of Rohan with no need for food or rest – and now he has a new interest. No wonder I am knackered this morning. How am I going to keep up with him for the rest of my life? –I don’t know, but it will be a lot of fun trying.

And all the promises and words of love – I had no idea how much difference that would make. How much better fucking would be with the One I need for the rest of time.

But, now, need to wake up. I can see from the sun that it is late morning – I should have been up hours ago – well, I think, I was up – up my elf half the bloody night. Anyway. Need to concentrate on whoever is at the door – this is my room, will be someone wanting me. Those bloody gates.........

It’s cousin Droin, son of Dwalin. Not good. Oh Mahal. Droin is at my bedroom door, faced with a naked elf. Had better get up. Although, whatever Droin is making of all this, I am very much enjoying the view from here. Elf’s arse really is fucking gorgeous – gorgeous to fuck as well, I think. And he is mine to enjoy – in every way I have ever known – and some I had not previously considered; elves are truly talented creatures. 

‘No,’ he says, ‘your Lord is not coming now. Or later. Go away. Deal with it yourselves today. And you can tell my people the same. And have some food sent up. Whatever you think your lord would want.’

Mumble, mumble from Droin. Oh fuck. Cross. Must get up and deal with it. But then Droin will not only have to cope with sight of naked elf, but with the sight of me - naked, unbraided, except, I notice, an elf-braid in my beard, and hard as mithril from staring at my elf, from remembering last night.

Oh fuck. Last night – my love is not a quiet elf. So much for all the famed stealth and subtlety of elves. Droin, and no doubt most of Minas Tirith, probably already knows exactly what we were doing. And would probably like us to stop. Or at least be quieter. If it were another of my dwarves, I would suspect them of bringing a gag. Fortunately, Droin has no sense of humour.

‘I don’t care whether you take orders from the prince of Mirkwood or the leader of the elves of Ithilien or not. No, those are not your lord Gimli’s orders either,’ he pauses, ‘they are my orders. The orders of the consort of the Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond.’ 

And my Legolas tosses his beautiful hair, which I know I alone may braid later into a proper dwarven marriage-braid, and he shuts the door. 

Don’t need to get up. He has dealt with it. Must remember, he is not some simpering virgin – he is a prince, and a warrior – he was probably capturing dwarves and killing orcs before I was born. I should remember – every time, it has been him who has had the courage to take a step towards me, every time I would have let this that we have go, for fear, for hesitancy, for pride – it has been him who has rescued me. From that first outstretched hand of apology in Lorien, finding me after every battle, following me through the Glittering Caves, holding out his comb to me in the forest, waiting for me on the balcony, coming back when I, in hurt pride, would have let him go last night, to this morning’s vow to follow me into the Halls of Waiting, it is always his courage, and my acceptance. Yet – I don’t think he sees it, he seems to see me as the hero, when all I have ever done is be the same bloody-minded, cantankerous dwarf I have always been – no showy stunts in battle, no poetry, no grace, no royal blood – just Gimli. But maybe after an age of elves, that’s what he needs. That, and a bloody good fuck – and that, I can do.

Just because he doesn’t act like it very often, I forget he is the son of Thranduil. Thranduil. Elf-king Thranduil. I think of my love’s words and my heart aches for him – what kind of father leaves a son with the memory of the words “you have neither disgraced nor disappointed me this day” as the highest praise after a battle – a battle he was nearly killed in? One day soon, I think, we are going to have a conversation about this – but I don’t know. Should I just leave well alone, if he is content why risk hurting him? Maybe leave it for now, I think. Time enough. But, I will not let that bastard hurt him ever again.

Oh shit. He is the son of Thranduil, and I am bound to him. I wouldn’t undo it for the world, but – oh shit, how am I going to tell my parents?

My parents. And I think back to those difficult conversations, those loving questions – which I suspect I did not parry as well as I wished. I doubt this will actually come as much of a surprise to them – they had almost guessed. Possibly they had, but did not want to force me to tell that I wished to conceal – certainly I don’t think I ever got much else past them. I hope they are prepared for this, I hope they will learn to live with it. Well, I think, they have only themselves to blame. They brought me up to believe in true love and look for it. 

Still, probably best to stay here while Droin tells everyone else – everyone who hasn’t already worked it out. Perhaps he will tell all those bloody elves as well. They can make up a nice song. Yes, stay here for a good long while actually, while they all get used to it.

Now, I just want to watch him through half-shut eyes, as he walks towards me and enjoy my good fortune that this creature, this beautiful being, wants me. And – try to forget my guilt that I hurt him so this winter. That I walked away leaving him so confused, so desperate that when he came here yesterday I hardly knew him. That shadow, that pale imitation of the elf I spent so long with – I could not think what had happened. Now I know all too well what happened. Gimli happened. 

Fool that I am. Oh I would like to say Eomer should have told me, should have bloody shaken me until I listened, I would like to say this daft sodding elf of mine should have spoken, but – I am honest enough to know that only one person is really to blame for this. Me. So busy lusting I didn’t see what was in front of me. So sure I knew all about bloody elves I did not see the words this one was trying to say. Three words. Three words from either of us – three words we both were saying in our own tongues, but not so the other could hear. Three words that I began to think I would never say, would never hear. Three words I think I can now never say or hear enough. 

I love you.

But – right now, I am not going to say anything. He thinks I am asleep, which is why he has sent my cousin away – for which I am grateful; fond as I am of Droin, I do not wish to see him right now. There is only one – only One – I wish to see, hear, touch, taste, or think of right now, for as long as we can reasonably (or possibly unreasonably) stay here in this room. Only One, and as I look at him, I realise that not only is he no longer pale, no longer – what was the bloody elf-word – faded – he is more golden, more glowing, more beautiful than I have ever seen him. 

After all, it’s not as though I’ll be bored, I think, as my elf comes back to bed, and slips straight into where he ought to be – nestled up close in my arms, one hand playing with my hair, one hand reaching down. I wonder how he will choose to wake me up this time. I wonder how long I can pretend to be asleep. 

“I know you are awake, melethron-nin,” he breathes into my ear as he strokes my cock, “you are no longer snoring. So the question is, are you going to lie back and let me sit astride you, or are you going to try and take control again?”

Definitely no virgin, and I am definitely not going to be bored. Although, I think there are still a few things to teach my pretty elf – I think there are still a few delights he has no idea of. I am smiling thinking about them, planning. I begin to know what my elf would enjoy – although so far, it is everything. But I think I will let him do the work this time – my beautiful warrior-prince.

“Or,” he continues, “since I dealt with your annoying cousin for you, shall I claim a forfeit?”

I am not expecting this, my eyes open, slightly worried – elvish humour is unpredictable.

“I knew you were awake,” he smiles, but there is definitely mischief in those sapphire blue eyes, glinting dangerously only an inch from mine, “so – my love – what do you think? A forfeit? Is it my turn to have you crying out for more?” and his hand leaves my cock and, while I am still dazed, he has licked and sucked at his own finger – the sight leaving me harder than ever – and is working it into me. It is a long while since I have felt this, a long while since I was with someone I trusted enough to want to feel this – but, ah sweet, sweet elf, that is good. 

Fuck, he’s a fast learner, I think, as I move my legs to allow him easier access, as I reach one arm round to hold him to me. 

I am breathing hard, and as his other hand twines in my beard, I reach for him, fisting hard at his cock;

“Come on then, elf, take your forfeit,” I say, “but you may find yourself dealing with my cousin a lot.............”

He smiles, leans forward to kiss me, and as he pulls back again, ready to take me, I think that this is worth any price I may pay when we leave these rooms. I don’t give a shit what my cousin or any other thinks. I don’t care that I have agreed to spend half the bloody year in some elven nest in a bloody tree – after all, I will have half the year in my caves, half the year to watch him among my other jewels. And anyway, all year round, for the rest of my life, I will have the only treasure I have ever truly wanted, right here in my arms.

My elf is singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally.
> 
> thank you for all the nice comments, I hope this end is what you wanted.  
> there will be, I think, some side-fics at some point, just because I am enjoying this - I hope someone else does too!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Silent Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754971) by [Lasgalendil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil)
  * [This, I wish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786433) by [hope91](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hope91/pseuds/hope91)




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